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THE LIGHT OF COLD-HOME FORD 


By MAY CROMMELIN 


17 TOS7 VaNDEWATEI^ 3t 




pel 


The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, Issued 


_ 1 , iimii/ii.ii icir.uc.vi i.. , ^ jr annum. 

ighted 1885 by George Muuro— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates— Nov. 19, 188! 











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3 


'v 

JOY: 

OB, 

THE LIGHT OF COLD-HOME FORD. 


A ^OVBL. 



By MAY CROMMELIN. 


“ How far that little candle throws his beams 1 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.” 

Merchant of Venice. 




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NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNJIO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewatku Street. 


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JO“3r- 


CHAPTER 1. 

“Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote 
The drought of March hath perced to the roote, 

And bathed every veyne in svvich licour. 

Of which vertue engendered is the flour.” 

Chaucer. 

A NARROW glen ended in a little waterfall; above and beyond it 
the moors stretched broivn and unbroken by fences for miles, under 
the broad and benignant light of a spring sky. 

It was a solitary spot. The nearest dwelling was a farmhouse, 
nearly two miles away. The only human beings who passed there 
might be a stray shepherd coming down from the moorland by the 
path to the ford; or, more seldom still, a distant farmer riding up to 
see his herds of roaming, half-wild red cattle and branded ponies. 
Nevertheless, there was a little human home here. 

Close against a high rock at the glen’s mouth was a small cottage 
of gray moorstone, with a deep thatched roof and a little rounded 
porch rudely made of rubble and plastered with mud. The brown- 
roofed cottage was built against the weather-worn cliff, much, in- 
deed, as the house- martins ’^nests of dried clay found shelter under 
its own eaves. It looked so lonely, dropped down there in the 
wilderness, in spite of its guardian rock! No wonder that when the 
shepherd, for whom it was first built, died, and the cottage was de- 
serted, the passing peasants, shunning alter nightfall those deserted 
walls, perhaps infested by bogies, gave it the nickname of Cold- 
home. Besides, there were ill tales told, on winter nights in the 
more cheerful little homes round, of wayfarers who had been 
drowned in the river close by where it stood. 

The Chad had its tiny well-spring far away up on the hills in the 
heather. Thence it flowed softly through the moorland, uncon- 
scious of growing strength, till all at once, coming to a leap down a 
rock-ledge, it laughed out loud. Alter which, down and down it 
plunged, with gurgling music, in a strong rush of water foaming 
down into the heart of the glen, beneath overshadowing birches and 
oaks steeply rooted among the rocks, whose interlocked branches, 
hid out the sunshine. Once below, after whirling round and lound 
in a deep pool, the Chad rushed swiftly on. Its rock-bound chan- 
nel was often blocked amid -stream by great bowlders, seeming flung- 
there by giants at play, and once used as altars by the Druids for 
human sacrifice, said some wise folk. It flowed past all these, still 
carrying air-bells and foam-sprays on its clear, brown flood, darken- 
ing sometimes in shadowed, deep pools, and again frolicking with. 


4 


JOY. 


many smiles over gravelly shallows, as if uncertain how to behave 
itself toward mother earth; till at last, taking existence easily, it 
wound in accommodating pleasantness by primrose slopes, and 
through buttercup meadows, in the low, rich lands that stretched 
from the breezy, upland wolds of its cradle to the far sea. 

Some of those dark pools near the waterfall were dangerous 
•enough, their edges being often wet and slippery with spra3^ But 
•worse than these was a broad, sun-kissed oue, so deceitfully clear 
you should swear your three-feet ashen staff could touch the shin- 
ing, seemingly shifting bottom; and yet tradition told that a strong 
peddler, renowned at fairs lor his wrestling prowess, and a favorite 
with his women customers, missing the ford one dark night, and 
stepping in here close by, was drowned. And thence the spot was 
called the Deadman’s Pool. The ford was just opposite the cottage, 
which stood but a little way off; and this being the only safe cross- 
ing-place for some distance up and down the Chad, needs must that 
the few w'ayfarers should come thereby, and, if wise, before night- 
lall. 

Cold-home Cottage was no longer empty, however, at the lime 
this story begins. And this, the beginning, is on an evening more 
than a quarter of this century back. It was also the time of j^ear 
of “ April that messager is to May.” 

Very thin smoke rose faintly from the cottage chimney. Not a 
cow, pig, cat, or other animal was to be seen near, except a solitary 
she-goat tethered among the bushes; no hens or ducks clucked and 
quacked on the threshold. In the miners’ huts away on the other 
'Side of the moors one heard all day long the cries of romping, half 
wild children, the rough voices, often raised in scolding, of wives 
and mothers. Bagged garments were always being dried on the 
loose stone walls, and if a stray mallow or larkspur "bloomed by the 
crazy door, it only looked down-trodden and miserable. 

But this little brown house was as clean and sweet as a nut. 
Grass grew thick up to the solitary path that led to the porch which 
«eemed ciushed under its thatched roof, yet a honeysuckle and a 
rose twined round its entrance. The silence inside and around was 
so intense one could hear the calls and cries of the wild creatures 
and birds on the moor above; these and the constant sound of fall- 
ing water among the rocks and alders up the dark glen. It seemed 
simply a moorman’s hut. A rude herdsman might come home here 
to sleep after spending his days out on the heathery hillsides, watch- 
ing his flocks of straying, active sheep, wiih an occasional ej^eto the 
shaggy, half-wild ponies or the more domesticated red cattle. 

The door opened this evening, and two dark women figures came 
out into the porch. They paused a moment, and, as if from habit, 
looked first across the stream at the track leading from the moors to 
the ford near their door, and then down the widened valley into the 
cultivated fields and meadows. Nothing— no living human being 
to be seen. 

Then both stepped out and walked silently toward the river’s 
edge, as if also from unconscious habit. They wore odd-looking 
capes, with hoods almost entirely concealing their faces, and black 
gowns of coarse serge, just long enough to escape touching the 
ground, and that fell in severe folds around them. Yet any passer- 


JOY. 


5 

by with a quick eye for beauty might perhaps have detecterl that 
both women had unusually well shaped figures under those homely^ 
awkwardly made gowns. One, who was the smaller of the two, 
seemed more soft and plump in her natural curves than her com- 
panion; the other had a grand gait, a tall, even commanding figure. 

As tiiey reached the brink of the Chad and sat down absently 
under the fresh, green alders, finding resting-places among the 
mossy rocks lying scattered around, the hoixl of the taller silent 
being fell a little back. She was a beautiful woman. Her eyes 
were dark and rather long, with a deep, inward look as of one ab- 
sorbed in thought, while, her strong figure seemed meant for action. 

Her forehead was ample and finely shaped, framed in heavy bands, 
of jet-black hair. Her nose was somewhat prominent, but, with the 
great sweetness of her mouth, only atlded to her whole air of firm- 
ness wedded to gentleness; and, as might have been expected from 
the rest of her appearance, her throat was full and massive, a sign 
of mental as of bodily strength. She might have been a Catholic 
saint, living in austerity in a desert; she might have been a Judith,, 
her de(3d of patriotic deliverance done. 

One might at least imagine that some great unspoken, almost un- 
utterable, sorrow had taken up its home for life in her heart, and 
could dimly be seen through her eyes — the soul’s windows. But it 
was no living sorrow, rather the ribs of a wreck (hat now rested in a 
hushed sea of love — of peace. Looking at her still smile, one could 
well believe that no murmurs ever crossed those lips. 

Who was this woman? What was she doing in these moors? How^ 
had she won that expression of great calm which many a saint 
might hardly have reached after years of struggle? Ho one for miles 
around could ha.ve told. 

She sat upright on a solitary stone, her hands clasped round her 
knees, her head raised as if she liked to feel the wide, moorland 
breeze blowing upon, her temples. The other, who was her sister, 
lay beside her resting against a tree trunk, as if seeking ease; and 
she shivered sliglitly at times in the mild air, while her hood was 
drawn close over light, curling, fair hair. 

Her wide, turquois eyes wandered earthwarvi over the mossy car- 
pet at her feet, seeming to see curiously every fresh, green irondlet 
of the new spring, and each withered leaf of last year’s prime rolled 
up like a tiny brown parchment fallen from Nature’s great book. 

It was a charming and secluded nook. The little river brawled 
down among the. rocks, and spread into a deep, dark pool before 
them. The weather was a mingling of warmth and moisture, sun 
and shower, as befitted the time of yeap Thorns Avere all bursting 
into the fresh leaf buds called in olden days “ ladies’ meat.”' The 
birches vere like a green-dotted haze, suspended in the air, while 
below their stems shone as silver pillars. Elms put out their belat- 
ed, rougher buds in a defiant manner; but the horse-chestnuts were 
everywhere generously unfolding five little, joined leaflets like babe- 
fingers, that would be spread, when warm June came, into a broad 
shelter for the heat. 

Half an hour passed, and neither of the two quiet sitters had 
stiried. Neither had spoken a word. 

The sun had moved, however, and now sent golden beams. 


6 


JOY. 


through the trees over the river. Up rose thereat a little swarm of 
<lancing flies, seen clearlj^ in the bright, low light. Down darted 
some hawking swallows in arrowy glancings. A few house-martins 
followed in more fluttering flight, eager to till their beaks for the ten- 
'der, gaping bills of the callow nestlings under the eaves of the little 
brown house yonder. Tliey flitted to and fro betw^een it and the 
bunting-ground with ceaseless energy. Twitter! twitter! as they 
flew ; still they came and went. 

Then the taller woman stirred a little, smiled, and said, in a deep 
but sweet tone, 

“ Yea, the swallow hath found her a nest. Well, even our poor 
)iome may be a temple to the Lord of Hosts when the incense of 
.prayer and praise is offered up in it. Look at the row of mud nests 
under the porch now, Magdalen. Three more since yesterday.” 
(She was glancing at their brown hut, which was only a little dis- 
tance away, and she had very long eyesight.) ” They remind me of 
the mud hovels in Egypt that we used to see plastered against the 
ruined temples.” 

Strange w'ords to be said in this remote English moorland, far 
fiom the likely haunts of traveled beings; and spoken, too, by any 
one inhabiting that rude cottage wdth its cob porch. What was 
.more strange was, that this woman had also the reflned speech of a 
gentlewoman of education, and — what many ladies have not — a 
voice so singularly musical that it resembled often the sounds of an 
^olian harp. 

CHAPTER 11. 

“ Spring, like Love, 

Doth stir a sad, sweet trouble in the heart.” 

The woman called Magdalen started, with a quick, nervous 
movement, as her sister spoke. IShe had not been thinking, how- 
over; but, in a sort of restless silence, had been amusing herself, 
with trifles, like a child, or lying with eyes almost closed in a half- 
sleep. Ten minutes ago she had descried two ants hurrying hive- 
ward, and had amused herself ever since laying twigs and leaves in 
their path. Poor, small insects, so full, doubtless, of duties and 
.anxieties. She vexed them, she knew it! and smiled with a sort of 
almost infantile malice in her pretty face; for, though worn, her 
features were very pretty. But, once startled from this noiseless, 
secret sport, she looked up sharply and listened. , 

” Egypt! 1 was never there like you. But 1 have traveled too. 
1 could tell you of mud huts in South America — and in Mexico. 
Ah! that was a life— al way’s gayety, excitement, and change! — 
-change!” 

She stopped and laughed; just two happy notes ending in one 
more so sharp and discordant that the darker sister turned and looked 
at her with a comforting glance. Magdalen’s eyes, light blue as 
forget-me nots, now wandered wearily over the landscape around. 
There rose sweep after sweep of brown moor, hill behind hill, each 
-standing shoulder to shoulder, none much higher than his brethren, 
but many topped with tors— giant crowns of rock jutting out in 
strange, different shapes. 


JOY. 


T 


“ They never change,” she murmured pettishly, yet almost as if 
she did not wish lier'complaiat overheard. ‘‘ There they are, that 
ugly mask-head, like a sphinx, and the castle one and all the rest. 
Oh, 1 am tired of them.” (Now, to be reasonable, why should the 
hills change their faces?) 

“Magdalen, they do change,” said the other woman, tenderly. 
Both spoke in the peculiar conscious tone of persons who seldomc 
did talk; but this one especially us if words were living symbols;, 
each to be thoughtfully chosen, though from her gentleness this- 
seemed not pedantic, and she was herself unaware of it. “ YeS;, 
they change. Why, every hollow on the moor is bright green now. 
though we are too far off here to see. And already, every here and 
there, you can see some gorse in flower, but presently up behind our 
cottage to the hill-brow will be one yellow blaze of sweet blossom, 
and, as old Dunbar says, the skies will ‘ ring with shouting of the 
larks.’ ” 

Magdalen could hardly be said to reply, but in an inconsequent 
way she lilted to herself the old saying, 

‘When the gorse is out o’ bloom, 

Kissiug’s out o’ favor.’ ” 

“Then, dear, think of the summer coming, and the warm days 
you are so fond of, and the long, twilight evenings on the hills. The 
heather will come out in bloom, but first the meadows down by 
Farmer Berrington’s will be full of mowers, and then comes 
harvest. But the hills are lovely already. Look at that change — 

A dark blue shadow passed rapidly over the lair hill-rauge that 
was a steep barrier to the opposite vallev. Ten seconds! it was gone 
like a past dream, and the whole hillside laughed in clear sunlight. 
Another dream is coming, its dark point pushing forward— on, on. 
but tliis wave lower than the last, the crest of the ridge and each 
jutting point still bright above it against the soft, blue sky. So. 
dreaming and w^aking, now above, now below, chasing and still re- 
turnipg, sunshine and shadow played upon the hilly moorland. 

As site had said, it was lovely! 

IVIagdalen looked, and impatiently burst out, as if she could not 
endure the view, 

“ Yes, Rachel, they do change, and we can’t. And they don’t 
change, but stand always, always there, and 1 hate tlieni for it! 
Summer coming, you say! AY by, that is the very lime when wo 
should be enjo.yins: ourselves, be ffay, be happy.” 

She made a little movement with her arms, as if indicating the mo- 
tion of a dance;. the merest abortive sign, instantly subsiding. Then, 
with a plaintive passion, she went on, 

“flow many human beings have we seen this past week? One 
shepherd coming down that far path.” 

“ Do we want to see human creatures?” said the other sister, with 
an inexpressible tone, as if a depth of sadness lay beneath, but was 
not stirred. 

“No, no, no! But still, what are our lives worth? We might as 
Yvell be brutes. ” 

“You forget the two lives out lantern may have saved last Satur- 
day market-night.” 


8 


JOY. 


“ The lantern, yes; is that all we are good for, to help tipsy boors 
from a ducking v” 

“No; human souls from drowning. Come, Magdalen, you know 
well enough that if the ford is low to-night, and the stones plain to 
«ee, still how often, after a freshet, any one passing in the dark 
might easily lose their lives, like those before them, in the Dead- 
man's Pool.” 

“ 1. do know. I am glad to help. You know that. Still, still — ” 
Magdalen’s voice died away as she seated herself low on the grass, 
with her arm under her head, apparently forgetting what she had 
meant to say. Silence again followed tor some time. 

At last, when many thoughts had come to the darker woman’s 
brain, and that a soothed and restful expression was visible on her 
face, the voice from the prostrate form asked, pathetically enough, 

“ Kacliel, why does one feel each spring like a bird longing to 
migrate to other lands? Not to have the wings of a dove, to flee 
away and be at rest — that’s you! 1 feel like a swallow, wanting to 
dart off in the air to see the sun elsewhere, to fly and flit, to have no 
fixed home — and to forget!” 

She spoke disconnectedly, and witli sudden pauses. Rachel seemed 
used to this, and waited, though with slow trouble just stirring her 
mind like a quiet ripple on the surface of depth. More was coni- 
ing. 

“Can’t you speak? Do you never feel it?” went on the other, 
yet not waiting for an answer. “ Are you become a stock or a stone, 
living in this wilderness, and yet you are younger than 1 am? Why, 
no one would think it!” 

“ Perhaps not,” mused Rachel, her lips just curving with a smile. 
Nothing cynical in it, no longer dreamy; but the smile of a good 
woman who bids a brave farewell to the beauty she held dear with 
youth and other gladnesses of life, yet who is capable of a sense of 
humor when told she does not feel it— humor which some hold to 
have been an attribute of the divine man, and that Nature shows in 
some of her animal motions. It is rare in women. 

Not know the nameless trouble and vague longing of spring? 
Why, during this past hour of quiet Rachel had felt so much a part 
of the surrounding universal nature that the quickening of renewed 
life pouring from the great heart of the earth— rising in eveiy grass- 
blade, stealing in sweet sap up all the tree-trunks, and thrilling out 
till their utmost twigs felt the influence, causing buds to swell and 
softly burst from their cases into colors of rosy-white, yellow, and 
lilac drawn mysteriously from the browm earth — all seemed a secret 
into which she entered, of which she partook. 

But only she herself knew how hard it was to answer. 

Twice she tried to begin, for surely here was a good opportunity 
of uttering a wish that had been growing in her heart all spring. 
Twice her lips failed; but the third time, with the sudden convic- 
tion that it was right, Rachel said softly, putting all her powers of 
gentle persuasiveness, all her love and sympathy, forth in her voice 
and tones; 

“ Perhaps what we both want— indeed, 1 am almost sure — is some 
gladness; all nature is full of it, every spring. Why, there are the 
very trees! the wind used to sigh through their branches in winter 


JOY. 


9 


so mournfully, and now the young leaves are full of rustlings like 
laughing, jind sometimes, it you listen, a rushing music of leaves 
when the wind swaj^s all the trees, as if it were Ariel’s spirit. And 
the birds, too, they consider happiness as their birthright each spring. 
Yes, and so it is; and ours too. They are happy in the sunshine, 
and their nests and young ones, as the trees and plants are in their 
leaves and blossoms, and all that God gives them. We may bo 
happy too — in their way.” 

“Never! 1 happy? never again. What do you mean, Rachel? 
Why, you are mad!” cried her sister, starting from her recumbent 
posture with parted lips and a pale, strange look on her face. 

“ If you onl}'^ would, dear, but it must be in nature’s own way,”” 
Rachel forced herself to repeat, with gentle impressiveness, though 
her heart felt sinking. “ If you and 1 nave lost the mere joy of be- 
ing young, there are other ways of being happy still left to us. We 
feel the want of some change, some break, some brightness in our 
lives. Well, then — let us have the child here” 

“The — child! Why? Rachel, you are evidently quite crazy. 
What right have you to startle me by tnese wild ideas, when we were 
living so peacefully and quietly here?” cried her sister, with wmak 
querulousuess, her lips slightly trembling, and her pretty blue eyes, 
wandering around, as it to find some good reasons to help herself 
out in the resistance she offered instinctively and at once froni a 
spirit of opposition. 

“ Why not, dear— at last? It is surely safe now, Magdalen. Wha 
has disturbed us these almost five years? If there is some danger 
(very little here), there is a great duty. Believe me, it would just be 
the one ray of human sunliglit in our lives to have that little child, 
with its cheery laugh and diamond eyes, playing about us.” 

“ Her eyes,” retorted the other, in an outburst of fury so sudden, 
it was like a storm out of a summer sky. “ She has her father’s 
eyes, and 1 hate to see them in her!” 

“And 1 love her when she looks at me out of them,” thought 
Rachel deep in her heart, but did not say so. 

Some deprecating answers, still a few gentle remonstrances she 
attempted, although the blue eyes fliished at her, and the passionate 
voice said one or two bitter, wild words hard to be borne. Then 
she saw it was of no use! All the yearnings of her woman’s instincts 
of motherliness, the secret hope through the long-growing spiing 
days that thus her loneliness of heart might be filled, these must be 
given up. The moors and hills looked darker for it, even to her 
patient eyes. 

But her deep tones were now heard only in tender soothing. 
Gradually the replies changed from passion to peevishness; then the 
subject was turned, and became monosyllables of raillery. After 
that, both voices ceased; the silence that seemed usual w’-as resumed. 
Presently, as the shadows grew longer, the two women rose, and 
went slowly back to the little brown cottage. Neither had spoken 
so much together for a long time. 

The hut only boasted of two earthen -floored rooms. The inner 
one was the bedroom, and that into which the door opened from the 
p>orch was kitchen and dwelling -room combined. In the window- 


JOY. 


10 

sill, cut in the whole thickness of the wall, was set a tin lantern, 
holding a tallow candle. 

The sun had not yet sunk, however, and the candle was still 
unlit. 


CHAPTER 111. 

“ What time the sun reversed the mountain shadows, 

And from the yoke released the wearied oxen ; 

As his own chariot slowly passed away, 

Leaving on earth the friendly hour of rest.” 

Lord Lytton's Horace. 

The sun was setting that same evening, as the owner of the farm 
nearest to Cald-home Cottage took his way through the fields. He 
was going by a path that, alter once crossing the high-road, led to- 
ward the glen, now a mile and a halt away, and he was carrying a 
large covered basket. 

A call in a childish, treble sounded behind him, and a boy of about 
eight or nine came trotting along. The farmer stopped. 

“ Father, are you going to the cottage?” 

“ 1 am, my son.” 

“ Take me with you,” and the little fellow nestled his hand into 
the big, sunburned, paternal one that was unoccupied, whispering 
his request in a rather awed voice. The lather, a broad, hearty- 
looking man, looked down at the sunshiny head below him. 

” You bean’t afraid?” 

“No. What would make me?” 

“ Who was it would never come these last several weeks, and 
asked me the other night if those two were not witches, eh?” 

“ Well, and you said they uoeren'i, and that it w^as wicked of any 
folk to say so,” returned the little fellow, stoutly, as if that w^as 
reason sufficient to satisfy the world. 

“ Come along, Blyth,” was all the farmer replied, with a smile 
that wrinkled up the crow’s feet at the corners of his twinkling 
eyes, and on they went. 

Farmer Berrington had a face of hearty English ruddiness, as 
round and inexpressive as a full moon, and a moutli as cherubic as 
a child’s, one quite comical, in fact, between his nmtton-chop whis- 
kers. He likewise was a man of few words, but his little son found 
his a most conversable silence. He would w^alk on chewing a leaf- 
twdg, gazing at the new-plowed fields with such intense attention 
that Blyth would stare too. Thereupon his parent, turning to him, 
might ejaculate solemnly, “Good land!” with such a full -satisfied 
nod and air of good-fellowship as implied that that was his whole 
mind and now Blyth knew it. On which the boy, feeling thorough I}'- 
taken into the confidence of the big man beside him, would nod too, 
trying to imitate I he paternal air of Jove, and perhaps put likewise 
a leaf between his own rosy lips. But such intense gravity could 
only last a few minutes. Soon Blyth would be prattling again in 
the highest spirits, telling how he had climbed a tree that afternoon 
after a bird’s nest, and coming down had fallen, bumping his head 
badly; but that did not matter, only the fall had broken the eggs he 
had carried in his mouth for safety. 


JOY. 


11 


At such a tale the child’s upturned face would always meet the 
lather’s downward glance; and, though the farmer’s lips were mute, 
those wise, small, half -shut ejes would be all suftused with gleam- 
ing laughter that twitched, sometimes, when more excessive, the 
muscles of his face. Little Blyth found his father a very merry 
man. 

Just as both were about to cross a lane, before again taking their 
path through the fields, came the sound of horses approaching at a 
trot. 

The farmer peered over the stile, whistling under his breath. 
Then, seeing who the new-comers were, he dropped his heavy basket 
and proceeded leisurely to get into ihe lane empty-handed. 

“ Father, father, you’ve forgotten,” began little Blyth. 

” ’Sh, my boy; 1 know,” and a good-humored tap of two fingers 
on his straw hat admonished the small man that bigger men have 
mysterious ways of behaving which must be submitted to in them; 
though the nine-year-old manner of conduct seems much simpler, 
and more easy of understanding 

The riders approached, and proved to be another farmer riding a 
better-bred mare than most of his neighbors thereabouts cared to 
keep, with his little son on a moor-pony. 

” Hey! what? Hi, Berrington! the very man for me,” cried the 
elder rider, stopping and slapping his knee. Then, with an air of 
joviality plainly meant to disperse all thought of patronage on his 
part (which it did not, but suggested that same to the foolish resent- 
ment of his neighbors sometimes), he continued, “Well, and what 
fates you abroad, afoot, at this hour? Where be ’ee going to, eh?” 

” 'Tis a cool evening and pleasant for a walk, Mr. Hawkshaw.” 
replied Berrington, slowly turnina: his eyes, with an air of satisfac- 
tion, upon the evening expanse of sky. Then, in as simple a manner 
as if his wits had not noticed his neighbor’s inquisitiveness, he added, 
” Were you saying you wanted to see me?” 

“Well, not exactly; 1 reckon 1 could get along without un,” 
laughed his more vivacious acquaintance. ‘‘But still, know 
those two women-folk, wisht* sisters, as fools of moor-people call 
them, who live in that crazy cottage of yours up by the Chad 
yonder.” 

‘‘ They are my tenants, as j^ou say; therefore t ought to and do 
know something of them. But, with regard to the cottage, I do not 
know i( to be crazy — p’r’aps others are worse, to my thinking.” 

‘‘No offense, no offense, neighbor,” cried Hawkshaw% rather 
quickly, after that last sentence, in contrast to the slow impressive- 
ness of Berrington. ‘‘ Only, being so old and lost in the hills, it 
might have moldered away long ago, 1 thought — ha, ha! Well, 
well, buila a new one— go forward, that’s my 'motto, and no good 
fellow ever finds Steenie Hawkshaw go back from his word. But 1 
came round by here this evening to see these queer tenants of 
yours.” 

‘‘ In— deed?” 

” i did. They served me a good turn last Saturday night, as 1 
was coming back from market with some others. We had all 


* Mysterious. 


finished the evening at the Lainb and Flag, and were gay, yerj" 
gay. So, when we came to the river, 11 was fairish dark, and, if it 
hadn’t been for a candle they say those two always burn on purpose, 
I’ll be d— d if this mare and I wouldn’t have ridden into the Dead- 
man’s Pool; for we were straight for it, only little Willie Tarr, the 
miller, gave a shout that mislit have raised the dead, when he found 
where he was. Lord! 1 can’t help laughing; the fright nearly 

sobered us.” . , , . 

“ And may one inquire what you want, then, further with the' 
women, neighbor?” asked Berrington, still stolidly. 

” Want? Why, it’s they that want, by all accounts, man alive! 
I’m bound to give them something tor their pains, and so 1 will, 
too. No one shall have it to say they saved Stephen Hawkshaw’s 
life, and that he was mean about it- no, no.” 

For all answer. Farmer Berrington began to laugh, apparently. 
Not a sound came, but his huge body heaved and shook with a 
mountain mirth, silently further expressed by his facial contortions 
and the way be twisted, his hands in his breeches pockets. 

Hawkshaw grew half angry watching him. 

‘‘ What is it, man? Speak up,” he repeated several times. 

“ I was thinking,” replied Berrington, wiping his e3^es with a led 
and yellow cotton handkerchief, for he was afflicted with a rheum 
in these that laughter caused to flow, ” that the sisters could hardly 
have known they were helping you ; and maybe they might not have 
much cared. Why, man! they always put the lantern in the win- 
dow, to do a kind turn to any tramp, and ask nought.” 

“But they’ll take quick enough,” returned Hawkshaw, slightly 
offended, searching his pockets with a great air, ” and, when 1 told 
you I’d pay them, I’m not the man to break my word. But as 
those two stiles are still betwixt me and the cottage, and it’s a good- 
ish bit round to ride, maybe, if you are bound that way, you’d oblige 
me, being on foot,” and he produced sorne loose silver. 

Berrington shook his head. 

” They would not have it— that’s my belief. Seems strange, too; 
but women and weather is sometimes curious — specially unmarried 
ones, and living alone.” 

” Why, what are they, then, to refuse good money? What do 
they live by, and what’s their name, eh?” asked the distant farmer, 
with a contemptuous surprise, and an insisting suspicion in bis 
manner at such cottagers having the impudence, as it were, to refuse 
his offer by proxy. 

” Oh, poor creatures — very,” answered Berrington, nodding his 
head. ” Live like the rest, but keep to themselves. It may be their 
religion ; Methodys and Quakers have queer ways, I’ve heard tell — 
but don’t know much about such folk. Anyway, these ones think 
this light of theirs an act of mercy, and therefore won’t touch money 
for it; that 1 do know. No, not it you went to tempt them with 
gold.” 

This was said so decisively that Hawkshaw, assuming reluctance, 
restored his money to his pocket. 

” But it’s strange, too; they can’t be from these parts. What is 
their right name, anyway?” he repeated, being well known as a 
busybody. Then, lowering his voice with a look toward the boys. 


JOY. 


13 


■“ Some folk say it’s queer they don’t work for their living, and yet 
they do live. And a woman down by us says her cow has never 
given the same amount of milk since she drove it by there a mouth 
ago— and where is that gone to? Not that 1 hold much by such 
tales; but still— why, I’d have you keep an eye on them, neighbor — 
1 would indeed.” 

” And so you think witches would try to save your life and that 
of others, do you?” said Berrington, with weighty contempt. 

Look ye here, 'Mr. Hawkshaw, when common people don’t under- 
stand anything, tlmy ahoays think the worst they can of it ! That 
I’ve remarked. But you might be above giving such superstitious, 
lying tales credit. Why, I’ve known those women nigh on four 
years, and it any one says they’re not honest, poor souls, just tell 
that man or woman to say so to George Berrington.” (He pro- 
nounced his name Jarge.) 

‘‘Oh, w^ell, w’ell!” ejaculated Hawkshaw, who loved a gossip 
more than most of the men in those parts, and was a foolish but 
good-natured soul, as indeed his once handsome face, now coarsened 
% drink, showed. ” But, d’ye see. Parson Russell asked me last 
time we were out with the hounds— for he had heard them called 
the ‘gray sisters,’ after the stones in the old circle on Y/hiddon 
Moor, and felt called on to inquire — it they were sheep of his or 
not; ‘and you alwaj’^s know everyttiing, Hawkshaw,’ says he. So 
Imust tell him next time we meet. How do they live, eh? What 
is their right name?” 

‘‘ 1 rayther dis— remember. Oh— Stone, 1 think,” said Berrington, 
who had relapsed into more than usual impassiveness after such an 
unusual amount of conversation. ‘‘Why, as to work, ’ tis all 
honest; a little sewing, and picking heather for brooms and — such- 
like. One is often sick for days, and the other tends her, so they’re 
not seen much — that’s all. How^somever, they’ie my tenants, soil’ll 
thank busy folk to mind their own business, as 1 never meddle with 
what’s no concern of mine. If Parson Russell don’t see them at 
church, why, it means they’re going to heaven by some other way, 
and maybe a straiter gate than his own. Tell him that.” 

Hereupon Berrington struck his stick on the ground forcibly, 
and, pulling out his red handkerchiel, again rubbed his forehead, 
heated with discussion; evidently taking umbrage at any disposition 
to interfere with those under his protection. ‘‘ Let every man mind 
his own business,” was the favorite sentence for 'wliich the farmer 
was famous; and it was a wonder that Hawkshaw had not already 
got more ot the rough side of his tongue. 

Berrington now added, 

” Come on, Blyth; we must be going.” 

“Well, good-evening, good-evening. Come over and see me at 
Chadford Barton some evejiing, farmer. Always glad to see my 
neighbors,.” cried Hawkshaw, in a tone meant as conciliation ot his 
oflense, with a benign wave of his arm. 

“ Thank ye, farmer; perhaps you’ll come over first to the Red 
House,” gruffly returned George Berrington. 

He stood still as one of the granite posts of the gate beside him, 
watching his neighbor ride off with much clatter of importance. 
Hawkshaw cut his mare sharply with the whip, exclaiming, “ Coom 


14 


JOY. 


oop,” and “ Ooom aan ” to her and the boy, quite forgetting his 
usual gentility of speech. In truth this, when stirred to its early 
foundations of dialect, was vulgar enough, tar more common than 
that of Berrington, who made no pretense at fine words, but was a 
man of fair education and natural good-breeding. Berrington 
guessed now, with a slow smile, that Hawkshaw was nettled by the 
word “ farmer ” so unhesitatingly returned to himself by the man 
who was proud of being thus called. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Like one of Shakespeare’s women.”— Shelley. 

When the two riders were fairly gone, George Berrington stepped 
back for his big basket, then pursued his way, thinking quietly to 
himself. At last his gaze turned on little Blylh. The tw’o boys, in 
their late meeting, had been eying each other much as might a pair 
of puppies of rival breeds ; eithta- mentally appraising the new^ ac- 
quaintance, the one with growing contempt, the other in envious de- 
fiance. 

“ Well, what did that boy and you say to each other, my son?’^ 
said the father. 

“ lie asked me why I had no pony to ride, too; and I said I might 
have ten or twenty, if my father pleased. And so I might, mightn’t 
I, dad?— for all yours on the moor are as good as his,” answ'ered 
Blyth, whose wrath had been warming in his heart. Then the 
child’s feelings burst out unrestrained, and he halt sobbed, rubbing 
his head against his father’s coat. ” But ivhy may 1 not ride a pony 
of my own — why not, father?” 

“Because you are young and tender yet, and I promised youi 
mother, when she died, to take good care of you, boy,” was the 
slow answer, given in a troubled tone. “ Next year, lad. Learn 
well now, and then you shall ride to Moortowm School every day.” 

“ Steenie Hawkshaw doesn’t go to school,” 

“No; but you are to grow up a better man than he. See here, 
Blyth, his father wants to seem a gentleman, and bring him up like- 
wise.” Set a beggar on horseback, thought the farmer here in due 
pause for comfort in speaking. “But you are to one. Don’t 
forget that. Your mother was a lady by birth— a church clergy- 
man’s daughter — though poor, and a governess. She was anxious, 
poor soul, for you; silo’d have brought you up right. Well, I’m a 
plain man, but I’ll do my best.” 

“ Do gentry always learn much?” asked the child. 

“ They ought to; and I hate a man to seem what he isn’t. Re- 
member that, my boy.” 

“ All right, 1 will,” said Blyth, stoutly. 

In silence both now went till they had approached the entrance of 
the glen. The sound of the Chad pouring between its scattered 
bowlders and foaming over tiny natural wears, seen in ghostly white 
water through the gathering darkness, pleased the boy. ' 

The farmer was looking before him at a huge mass of rock stand- 
ing alone, a striking object, on the river bank. Just here a fringe. 


JOY. 


15 


of alders and birches began, and, increasing in density, followed the 
stream up its course to the waterfall in the glen. This rock was 
known in the country as a Logan- stone, from its logging or rocking 
slightly on its base when pushed. At rare times, some of the young 
country-folk out sweetliearting would stray from the beaten tracks 
thus far to sit down for an hour and crack nuts even under that 
stone monster. It was so strangely poised on three other low stones, 
that a child might shake it, but a giant force would be needed to 
dislodge it. 

No travelers ever found their way hither; else any such who, 
clambering upon the great rock with difficulty, had discerned a shal- 
low pan cut on its top surface, as is usual with supposed Druid 
altars, might have moralized over the almost ignobly innocent use 
to which it was now put. 

Farmer Berrington placed his basket under the Logan-stone, then, 
bidding Blyth pfay by the river for a little while, withdrew himself 
to a short distance, and there in the open ground stood still. 

It was strange in that solitary spot, with night falling, and only 
trees, bushes, and river, but no living creature, visible (or likely to 
be seen around), for a sensible English farmer to wait a quarter of 
an hour, doing nothing except resting first on one leg, then on the 
other. As the minutes passed a certain tension became apparent on 
the good man’s face. He was thinking that supper-time at the farm 
was approaching ; and, if not hungry himself, little Blyth might 
be so. 

At last a dark woman’s figure glided out from behind the Logan- 
stone. She must have come unperceived from the alders that shad- 
owed the river-side, and through which a foot- track led toward the 
gleu. At first she stooped to pick up the basket; but seeing Ber- 
rington ’s big form, motionless as a gnomon, in the middle of a circle 
of greensward, she hesitated. The farmer took off his hat, but still 
waited. 

Then, after a pause of a short time, apparently necessary for her 
to make up her mind to something unusual, Rachel — for it was the 
darker of the sisters at the cottage — went straight toward Berrington 
with as grand a gait as if she had been Night herself. Stopping4^i 
front of him, her face quite hidden by her hood, as the man did not 
seem to know exactly how to begin, she calmly asked, 

“ You want to speak to me?” 

“ Well, yes. At least — hem! hem!” faltered the worthy Berring- 
ton, who secretly wished he had spent his late rest in due prepara- 
tion of speech, for no right opening words would come without heed 
as by inspiration to him. 

Another pause. Then the woman said, low but clear, 

“What is it? When 1 saw you last, on New Year’s Day, you 
said we might pay all due at midsummer.” 

“ ’Tis not- that. No. no.” Berrington shifted uneasily on his 
feet. “ Only I’m afraid 1 said what 1 had no call to this evening. 
A man asked me your names, and somehow, what with hesitation 
like, 1 slipped out Stone.” 

“Ah!” A quick observer might have heard fear in that sharp 
inspiration rather than articulate souud; but the question which fol- 
lowed was quietly put. “ What was the man like?” 


16 


JOY. 


“ 01), don’t fear; only a tool of a gentleman farmer dow^n yon- 
der.” Here the worth)'^ owner ot Red-house Farm jerked his thumb 
over his shoulder. ” It was in gratitude for j^our light. But I’m 
thinking now, maybe, ’twas as well. For Estonia is such an out- 
landish name, it would only excite talk among the people here, who, 
though no more meddlesome than most, still cannot always be kept 
to their own affairs; and, indeed, 1 myself don’t easily get my tongue 
iL-ound it.” 

A sigh, long-drawn, this time came in answer. 

I did not -like living a fraud. 1 love the name to which we have 
a right.” 

” Well, well, believe me, ma’am. Stone would be best to answer 
to, if you mean to live long here.” 

” 1 trust to stay here in peace till 1— till we die.” 

Then take my word for it,” said Berrington, impressively. 

Mind you, none have asked me your name nigh these two j'ears; 
none may in those, please God, to come tor us all. Ikeep my house- 
hold in good order, and my neighbors in due civility on both sides. 
But still, it is as well tor lone women to be careful; though while 
George Berrington lives you can count on a friend! As you may re- 
member, so 1 said, which was once and for always, on Midsummer 
Night these three years past come June.” 

” You are a good man, Mr. Berrington; and wise, which is rarer. 
As to Stone — well,” and under that hood her face took a fsad, almost 
cynical smile as she thought (” we are both as dead to the world as 
a stone; Niobe was a stone, too, though she w ns happy in her in- 
sensibility ”). ‘‘ Yes, it is a name that suits us. We will keep it. 

Good-evening.” 

“Good-evening, ma’am.” Still the farmer hesitated. “And 
your sister, she keeps well, 1 hope?” 

“ She is well at present, thank you.” 

“ Would — maybe— would not a little cheerful talk, some diver- 
sion, now, of others’ company?” He stopped, as, w^itha kindly but 
emphatic shake of the head and gesture of hand, the strange woman 
turned away and left him alone. 

,“ Well, well, 1 do not know who would be company fit for them 
now in my house; that’s true,” reflected Berrington, thinking of 
liimselt, taciturn by liking and conscious of much wanting except 
good-will; ot little Blyth, ot the two farm-maids, the shepherd and 
the cow-keeper. Yet adding to himself, with a proud warmth about 
his heart, as he went to seek his boy, who was throwing pebbles into 
•the water, “ Still, if my wife had lived — ” 

A few minutes later, a bright speck of light appeared in the dark- 
ness of the glen. It was as it a little shining door for fairies was 
opened into the heart ot the black, brooding hills, where all inside 
might be glow and warmth. 

The candle of Cold- home was lit. 


JOY. 


IT 


CHAPTER V. 

“ A child with eyes divine, a little child, 

A little child— no more.” 

L. Morris, 

A MIDDLE-AGED Woman and a little child. And this— namely alT^ 
which follows in the next tew chapters— is what they seemed to re- 
member afterward as in a dream. 

The vision ot an old-fashioned town; almost stagnant, but for 
some new industries sprung up of late yeais, and chiefly manifest 
by smoky mill chimneys and gangs of mill-hands, pale faced but 
]oud-ton|ued, going by at certain hours. 

On the outskirts of this town, a gloomy, prim old house built of 
red bricks, each ot which seemed stuck by a soot layer to its neigh- 
bor. There were rusty iron gates in front, opening on a small 
sweep where weeds throve like the children of the wicked, and bor- 
dering laurels stretched ragged, lean, overgrown branches. Behind 
was a garden where little grew; fenced by a high brick wall on 
which no fruit now cared to ripen, over which no thief wanted to 
clamber. 

The house had been in the country once, as a genteel abode, till 
the mills crept out to it. And now it stood sadly in the smokiest at- 
mosphere of the whole town, while around stretched, instead of 
green fields, a wilderness of ugly coal-stores, timber-yards, and so 
forth. 

Hardly a soul passed by there but the early troops of mill-workers, 
summoned at dawn, poor souls, by a dismal horn, to issue hungry 
and with insulting looks, if not words, at any passer by whose ap- 
pearance seemed genteel, or in any way provoked remark. Back 
they came again at one o’clock, and once more dispersed at nighfe It 
was not a tempting neighborhood for taking walks, certainly. 

Perhaps it vvas for this reason that neitlier woman nor child was 
scarcely ever seen out of doors. ^ As for the latter, who was a little 
girl about five years old, she remembered no other home, and played 
dailv within the small square of sooty garden between those high 
w^alis, without knowledge^ of any free meadows, of brighter green 
and sweeter flowers than the smoke-blackened ivy and hollies, and 
a few sad looking columbines and self-sown Canterbury-bells which 
smirched her pretty button of a nose when she kissed them with her 
rosv moutli. 

Tlie child herself was the only bright flower among them. She 
had lustrous dark eyes, with a roguish look lurking like a possible 
surprise in their depths; although otherwise she was quiet enough, 
and somewhat too pale of face. But her little head was covered with 
silky, dark curls that threw back soft reflections; her lips, where 
the color stays longest, were more sweetly red, surely, to her nurse’s 
partial mind, than those of any other child. And to hear her laugh 
in the evenings, in screeching trills of music, shaken by sudden 
alarms of hide-and-seek, or jangled by tickling, when the same 
nurse would devotedly spend an hour in amusing her, you would 


18 


JOY. 


swear it could not be the same little mouse of a child who played by 
herself so gravely all day. 

The woman was a strange enough figure. Nature had made her 
so big and stroug, but so round-shouldered, thick- waisted, and uu- 
€o\ith. Her complexion was of a muddy, freckled brown; her dark 
hair was coarse, but wonderfully thick and long, perhaps her only 
claim to beauty; and her features might be easily copied by a few 
pinches and depressions made with huger and thumb in a lump of 
putt}’’. The eyes were so small they were lost in the face. The nose 
had no bridge, and then sprung up as broad and thick as that of a 
negress. As to the mouth, it was a cavern when it opened to laugh; 
and, furthermore, the loss of one front tooth became then darkly 
visible in a gap that was quite an eyesore at hrst, making Hannah 
much uglier than she need have been, even taking into consideration 
a scar running up one cheek to the temple. When she took the 
child in her lap, little Joy would reach up her finger softly to run it 
along 1 his scar, laughing and saying, “Ugly, ugly;” and Hannah, 
curiously moved, would always reply, 

“Yes, dearie, it is sore; then kiss the place to make it well,” 
adding, in her heart, “ And it is sore when 1 call to mind who gave 
it me. Well, well, the cliild’s lips can cure what the f ather’s hands 
did. For her sake 1 got it, and for her sake 1 forgive it.” 

Poor ugly Hannah ! 

But in this little child’s eyes she was beautiful. 

Hannah might have been hideous. Nevertheless her breast was 
the most maternal to which this infantile being had ever been 
clasped, her arms were the strongest to toss little Joy in merry 
* play. And what mattered a mouth’s ugliness when it never opened 
but to say something pleasant; or little eyes that were all alive, when 
resting on the child, with the love that streamed from a big, warm 
heart? 

I’he house was known in the neighborhood as Mr. Quigg’s mu- 
seum, or, to speak more familiarly, as most folk did, ” Peter 
Quigg’s ” museum. “ Poor Peter!” the ragged gutter-imps used to 
shout after him down the streets of single-brick houses, new but al- 
ready crazy and shabby, in which the mill- workers slept — hardly 
lived, since they passed little more than the hours of night there. 
Peter Quigg went thither, carrying creature comforts and medicine 
with a furtive, ashamed air. He never looked angry with these im- 
pudent brats. Why should he? They meant no harm, and he was 
used to being called “ Poor Peter ” all his days, even by his mother 
who had loved him, then by his schoolmates; and absolute strangers 
in later life had always, after once meeting him, added that prefix 
of “ poor ” to his name. 

His name— that was a sore point — Quigg 1 

” What beautiful woman would ever have consented to take such a 
name?” he would sometimes despondently ask himself on chill twi- 
lights, when the loneliness of his old house made itself more heavily 
felt than usual. Now Johnson, his mother’s name, she might not 
have disliked that. But to change his patronymic, announce the 
fact in newspapers bear the laughter and ridicule of his native townf 
He shivered at the thought, and had not courage. Perhaps his gaze 


JOY. 19 

on this same evening would wander round the old furniture of his 
clingy room. 

“ And poor, too,” he would add to himself. “ At least, not with 
means to give such a jewel a proper setting.” 

Then rising in the right but feeble hope of putting an end to such 
vainly sorrowful reflections, an old mirror, topped by a decrepit 
eagle of faded gilding, reflected his person. He stopped short. 

“Ah, and that worst of all!” Thai meant that he was only a 
small, pale man, hollow-chested and nerveless, without good looks, 
without health. ” It is no wonder she would not,” he said to him- 
self, ‘‘ but still — ” 

All this explains why Peter Qulgg had never married. Also he 
lived in nervous dread that little Joy, whom he had received into 
his house out of pure goodness of heart, might be supposed to be re- 
lated to him. This he had delicately explained to Hannah when 
child and nurse arrived at the museum four years or more ago. She 
agreed to his views of discreet guarding against gossip, with wonder- 
ful zeal. Also she insisted on undertaking the whole duties of gen- 
eral servant in the old house thenceforth; baking, cooking, scrub- 
bing late and early, washing (what her master never took account 
of) a marvelous number of little white clothes to keep her nursling 
” like a princess,” she would say to herself, refusing peremptorily 
every offer of a charwoman often offered by Peter’s troublesome 
conscience. 

” What’s not known can’t be much spoken of; and, as the prov- 
erb says, a lie has no legs, but scandal has wings,” Hannah would 
reply, with a guttural laugh. She wanted no one spying and poking 
inside the bouse— not she. For which Hannah had perhaps her rea- 
sons, into which the timid little man who had given her the protec- 
tion of his roof did not like to inquire closely, whatever he vaguely 
might guess. So the house being roomy enough, and Hannah re- 
solved that no dpst should cry shakie on her resolution, it was well 
she was so strong, and no wonder she had not much time to play 
with baby Joy. 

As to the house being called a museum, here is the explanation. 

Peter Quigg’s lather, a doctor, had been a great collector of curi- 
osities of an unusual kind. Among other things, being given to 
ethnology, he had a room full of fine skulls and some skeletons; an- 
other still, lined with cases of what Hannah, being a northern 
woman, called “ wee beasties in spirits, which was far too good a 
death for them!” 

The son had grown up entirely given to the same taste, having 
one only early ambition, shadowed by timidity, to be curator to a 
large museum. The chance never came. Meanwhile the paternal 
house, and enough means for his modest wants, did become his 
property. He traveled yearly, adding to his collections with pa- 
tience and self-denial of other luxuries: sometimes he sold dupli- 
cates to other curio- hunters with careful honesty, thereby adding a 
little to his income. That was all. 

No, not quite all. Once, in his travels, he had made the acquaint- 
ance of a being who was thenceforth his ideal — a woman! This was 
his one lomance. Peter was not insensible to the charm of the 
young life so sweetly unfolding itself between the dark walls of the 


20 


JOY. 


museum; the little feet that made music on the stairs. He was 
drawn to, the child, but, wdien it came shyly to his knee, he did not 
know what on earth to say to it! He loved infants in the abstract, 
but stood in terrible awe of them in flesh and blood. They exacted 
such a drain of the animal spirits! and he had little or none to meet 
the demand. 

IStill he brought the child home dolls at times— foolish playtliings, 
truly, but then his heart was not mangled by seeing them destroyed; 
while the picture-books he brought far more often (long before she 
could read) were lorn by those teri’ible dimpled fists with glee, and 
flaunted before his sorrowing eyes. Plainly, in never knowing pa- 
ternity, I’eter Quigg had escaped much sorrow. 

Still, many a time, looking at him as he sat alone among his cases 
and books, Hannah wmuld think to herself pitifully, as she delighted 
her energies in strong work, “ He has a good heart, poor soul! It’s 
just like a well-laid grate; all the sticks and coal there, and nothing” 
wanting but a spunk o’ fire. And that he’ll never get.” 

So tile weeks and months, and now years, wore on. Hannah 
scrubbed, her master dreamed; and few, very lew, beyond Hiram, 
the trusty custodian of the museum treasures in his master s ab- 
sence, who had grown into serving- man from serving-boy there, 
knew, of the existence of sunny little Joy, or had even many times 
seen Hannah’s face. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ Waly, waly ! bairns are bonny ; 

Ane’s enough and twa’s ower mony.” 

Old Proverb. 

The fourth spring came that child and nurse lived at the mu- 
seum. Spring, a season when most tender young things, or frail 
persons, show signs of weakness as the weather warms. Hannah 
noticed with growing fear that her nursling lost heart daily to laugh 
at play, would mope on her little stool, and looked thin and white. 

” Small w^onder,” said the nurse aloud to herself. “ Never to see 
a bit of blue in God’s sky, but only them nasty reek fogs, and 
breathe only smoke, smoke! And a garden like a prison - 3 '^ard, with 
black, bare earth and gritty cinder-walks. Poor litttfe heart!” 

So she went straight to her master, and said all her mind, thus 
ending, 

” The child will die, sir. I must take her away for a change, and 
1 only pray in merciful goodness she may pick up her flesh again.” 

Hannah had a vigorous way of expressing herself that w^as in 
strong contrast to poor Peter Quigg’s limp gentleness. He passed 
his thin fingers through the lank brown hair that fell straight on 
either side of his forehead. 

” Whatever you think best, nurse. Dear me, what a frightful re- 
sponsibility children are! -But, you know, 1 never wdshcd to keep 
you both here against your will.” 

” That’s true, sir,” and Hannah thought, with some grim humor 
in her heart, “’Deed it’s more likely you took us in against 
will!” adding aloud, “ Then wre may go as soon as 1 can get things 
fixed to rights?” 


JOY. 


21 


“ Stay, stay. You won’t think ot doing anything without writing 
to liev!" exclaimed Mr. Quigg, with a sudden thought that lent al- 
most hrmness to his tone. And he thought to himself, “ Then I 
shall see her letter. ” 

“ She has nothing to say to the child.' It’s not hers; and, any- 
way, they trust eveithing to me,” majesticallly replied Hannah, with 
crushing decision. “Oh! I’ll write. I’ll go first and write after. 
There’s not loo much time to lose, maybe; tor besides — ” 

She stopped herself sharply. What was the use ot alarming the 
kindly being before her, who now waved his hand in yielding as- 
sent, and for whom she felt quite a protecting fondness, believing 
him the most chicken-hearted, gentle creature ever made in the like- 
ness of man? And then— she might be wrong. 

The truth was that, besides the child’s pining looks, something 
else had occurred to give Hannah troubled thought, if not actual 
distress of mind, during the last fortnight. 

” Misfortunes never come single — that’s a true word,” she sighed, 
forebodingly, to herself. For with the last April days, it being the 
time when gypsies^ take the road, and tramps and hawkers of all 
kinds are stirred to try new ways, leaving the winter beats in the 
town, an organ-grinder had passed three times by their gate. 

JNow this was an unusual thing in itself, because piles of timber 
and coal heaps are not a rich neighborhood for itinerant musicians. 
The first time, therefore, that litte Joy’s ears were ravished by the 
-sweet sounds, she trotted into the front parlor, which was forbidden 
ground, sacred to company that never came, with its furniture 
shrouded in holland sarks, like ghosts waiting resurrection, and 
there climbing on the window-sill, she glued her pretty face to the 
panes — whence Hannah had not the heart to dislodge her. 

As to the man, he was an ill-looking fellow enough, small and 
sallow, with a bush of unkempt hair. But there! what harm could 
a stranger do for once, and outside the iron gates too? 

“ I’d rather not meet him on a dark night alone,” thought Han- 
nah to herself; and there seemed an end to it. 

The next Sunday night (and a dark night, too), as Hannah had 
nearly reached home after chapel, this very Italian came close up to 
her under a lamp and tried to catch a glimpse of her features under 
the thick veil she wore hanging loose and straight from her rounda- 
bout straw bonnet. Somehow his act gave the woman a cold shiver 
down the back as she hurried in to the shelter of her kitchen. 

What with my figure and clothes, he couldn’t have took me to be 
pretty; and what was he doing down tlm road, without ever any 
people to rob nor publics to drink at?” 

The next Sunday Hannah did not go to chapel; though this serv- 
ice was the only outing the good soul permitted herself; while also 
she had hitlmi’to thought herself safe from notice of her surpassing 
ugliness behind her veil. 

Twice the organ grinder came again, and played outside the gates 
for nearly half an hour. But he saw no child’s face. Hannah had 
grimly said to herself, ‘T thought as much;” and yet why? She 
could not have told. But shti had invented a strange new game for 
her nursling called ” Lie still.” On the appearance of any passer- 
by, notably of the organ-grinder, little Joy flew to hide behind the 


nearest curtain; and there, only one bright eye occasionally peering 
out, would remain like a mouse till the bad man, who might steal 
little girls, was gone. Then, on Hannah’s signal, forth she would 
come,^ and they had high romps together over the enemy’s discom- 
fiture. This was all treated as a joke, however, and Joy thought 
her nurse a person of vast invention. 

“ Where to go, Hiram; ay, that’s the rub,” repeated Hannah the 
same night on which she had spoken to Mr. Quigg, having returned 
to the kitchen. ” Him upstairs,” and she jerked her head toward 
the ceiling significantly, ” will be off, too, for a fortnight, he says, 
so you can keep house till we come back.” 

“Suie-ly, sure-ly,’’’ said Hiram, with a joyful sound piercing 
through the decent regret he strove to infuse into his thick tones. 
Visions rose before him of a cozy bar-parlor, and of a welcoming 
widow with whom he had been keeping mild company these tw^enty 
years back. Hannah looked at him sharply, but thought in exonera- 
tion, ” Well, well, it is dull here; and he’s a man. Wh}’’, I’d as 
lief be in jail m 3 'self, barring the confinement. Hiram’s a decent 
body, but a gawk.” 

” Fresh air, and a pure breeze to blow some red into that babe’s 
blessed face is the necessary,” she mused aloud. ” I’d take her up 
to Ayrshire, but that all my own folk there are dead or scattered. 
If my sister was alive — ” 

” I’ve a sister,” announced Hiram, his thick wits stirring at the 
prospect of perfect freedom for a wiiile. ” She might give you 
lodging. She lives close to the sea at Sandy beach ” (the nearest 
small seaport), “some five hours distant by coach.” Then he 
stopped. ” But I forgot, you mightn’t care to go to the like of her, 
if jmu Knew; and yet, she is an honest woman now this many a 
year.” 

” Why, Hiram, what is it?” 

“ She got into trouble in her youth, you see,” said Hiram, apolo- 
getically. ‘ ‘ It was all along of vanity ; but she borrowed her mis- 
tress’s clothes to w^ear, and then was caught and tried for stealing. 
Prison ain’t a good school for a young girl, and maybe, after she 
came out, she was little the better in her conduct lor it. 1 don’t 
know— I don’t want to know — but she was nearly heart-broke, and 
no one would employ her. She wouldn’t come near us for j^ears. 
At last she wuites and says she is married to an old sailor on a pen- 
sion — very comfortable. I went to see her after that. She has a nice 
cottage and children now— all clean and lid 3 ^ No one know^s dowu 
there; but 1 think it only honest to tell you.” 

” 1 don’t know but what she would do; them that has knowii 
trouble is sometimes easier to live with,” said Hannah, half to her- 
self. Then they discussed the matter further. Lastly the woman 
said, artlessly, to the man, ‘‘Have you noticed that organ-grinder 
who comes past here of late? Is he respectable?” 

‘‘He! Lord ha’ mercy! he’s the greatest thief and rascal in the 
town; been had up times without end,” answered Hiram, simply.. 
“ Josey is the name he goes by. 1 sent him off to-day, not liking, 
that sort of loafing about our house.” (Here Hiram plumed himself„ 
having a great idea of the value of the museum’s contents). 
‘‘ ‘ You’ve a sweet leetle mees there; she loves to hear me/ says he. 


JOY. 


23 

Yes, and she’s got a bitter big nurse that will send j^ou off with a 
ffea in your ear,' says I — ‘ ha, ha!’ and away he went, taking a squint 
back at the house.” 

“Hiram,” impressively uttered Hannah, “your tongue is better 
oiled nor your wits, and it’s a pity they both don’t keep pace to- 
gether; for, as it is, you’re a fool.” 


CHAPTER Vll. 

“ And round the pebbly beaches far and wide 
I heard the first wave of the rising tide 
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep ; 

A voice out of the silence of the deep.” 

Longfellow. 

Brisk, short waves were breaking on a sandy shore. A salt breeze 
•was blowing the sunny sky free of clouds, and making the blood 
1 ingle cheerily in the veins of those who inhaled its strong, life-giv- 
ing brealh. 

Some fisher-children were at play in a little cottage-garden front- 
ing the beach, and among these was baby Joy, her head bare and 
her small person covered by a coarse blouse, so that she was fit to 
enjoy the new-learned delight of mud-pies and sand-castles, which 
these wonderful children taught her, to her heart’s content. 

The small creature was at first utterly amazed with delight at 
meeting children, real children, for the first time in her life. She 
had only seen them at rare moments before from her prison windows. 
And then the sea, the great shining sea, somelimes laughing at her, 
sometimes scolding, and the waves that chased her when she vent- 
ured down to them bare-legged, holding the fisher-boys’ hands 
timidly, till she fied back shrieking with frightened glee as the foam 
washed round her rosy, bare feet. Then again the hard, white 
strand, with its strange sea-creatures, its shining pebbles; and the 
wonders, too, of this tiny garden where she and her companions at 
present were busily building a noble shell-house supplied amply from 
the shingle, with an elegant path to this mansion marked by bits of 
broken glass. 

The rush of new sights, sounds, and ideas almost overfilled the 
small soul; her little heart and brain seemed bursting with such new- 
found gladness and wonder. 

Standing on a slab of natural rock w’^hich nhe called her throne, 
that formed a rude seat among the flowers of the cottage plot, little 
Joy sent out a strange, wild cry. It was a jubilee inspired by nat- 
ure’s self. 

Inside the cottage kitchen, two women, who were seated by the 
fireside at their evening tea, looked at each other and smiled. 

‘‘ It does my heart good to hear her. Just hark! The way that 
child has brightened up in these ten days, no one could have be- 
lieved that hadn’t seen it. Yes; bless you, my pretty dear,” said 
Hannah, applying herself to bitina: a large piece of smoking-hot, 
buttered scone; her face shining with satisfaction both over her 
charge and the meal. 

“It has done yourself good, too,” said Hiram’s sister, kindly, 


24 


JOY, 


who was a Mrs, Harper, the hostess. ‘‘To be shut up alone' for 
years in that old coal-hole of a house, willi not even a soul to speak 
to — for Hiram’s wits would lie in a salt-spoon — 1 wonder 3 'ou didn’t, 
die of it.” 

“ "Well, it was lonely never to have a woman to say a word with, 
that 1 will own,” averred Hannah, wdth a sigh like a small breep; 
the pleasure of enjoying what all women call “ a good talk ” -with 
one of her own sex causing her to open her heart more freely than- 
a fortnight ago she would have believed credible. Then, her soul 
being- stirred, she thus began, ” One never got even as much as a. 
breath of fresh air; while as to black beftles and rats. in the kitchen, 
they’d have been tumbling over each other if 1 hadn’t taught them 
to make room civilly by help of poison. But the want of company 
was worst, for 1 always %Yas a great one for being sociable. Some 
finds a pleasure in being stuck-up and keeping themselves to them- 
selves, as they call it. Now, in my mind, that’s often enough be- 
cause no one but theirselves will put up with them. The Lord 
made me ugly, so, thinks 1 , that’s a hint it’s my duty to make my- 
self more pleasant; but whenever Providence lays a duty on folks, 
Mrs. Harper, the devil’s sure to come and try them sorely. And so- 
how could 1 pass a joke, or be as agreeable as a Christian woman 
would wish amons: murdering foreigners and black Injins, with 
wliom my lot was cast for years? Ah! \vell, even the old museum 
is better nor that; but this is the first time, 1 may say, I’ve felt 
happy and com. fort able for j’-cars. And you’re the first woman as 
I’ve met, this mari}^ a day, 1 could put trust or confidence in.” 

Alter what Hiram said, this may seem remarkable. But, in 
truth, his sister was a little wmman who could be very pleasant to 
people she liked, and as sharp-tongued and distant to others. She 
jiad been pretty once, and had quick eyes with a furtive glance in 
them. Her manner to strangers at first was glib, wdth a forced 
gayety, but with husband and children it was tender and thought- 
ful; and so it w’^as now to Hannah. Such a tea as she knew how to 
set on that well-scoured, round table, too; such a pile of smoking 
cakes crowned with butter. True, she drank out of her saucer; a 
familiarity of ease Hannah had rigidly forbidden herself, for the 
child’s sake, hitlierto— but one must do at Rome as the Romans. 
So, with quite a joyous remembrance of early years, the nurse like- 
wise balanced her saucer on her open hand; and drank noisily, and 
was happy, as she said, and very comfortable. 

‘‘ Have another cup, and finish that plateful of cake; do. There’s 
as much more hot in the oven,” said Mrs. Harper. “ It’s a wonder 
to me, Mrs. Hannah, it 1 may take the liberty to say so, that you 
did stay so long in foreign parts, seeing you disliked them that 
much. Not that I mean to ask questions; it’s not what 1 care for 
much myself,” and she gave a little sigh. 

“ 1 know, 1 know. Best friends don’t go raking in our ash-pits 
to spy at what’s thrown out,” returned Hannah impressively. 

” But, my dear, ’twas not along o’ myself I did it, but because of 
one I loved better nor self, and would ha’ died for, since ever she 
first came to my arms, not much bigger than little Joy there; and 1 
a lump of a girl and a nursery-maid. I’d had a rough life at liome, 
and most that I gave my love to only paid me oack with laughter 


JOY. 


25 


for my ugliness. But with these ’twas all sott words and pretty 
ways that eased my sore heart. And she, bless her! was the pret- 
tiest thing I’d ever seen, and was fond of me, for all my ugly looks. 
So I just gave myself up to serve her and hers, for better or worse, 
through life, please God. And just as much as 1 loved her, 1 hated 
another person. Thai vvas a man! — her husband, when my dear 
had grown up. Sometimes, men seem to think all women to be 
either fools or angels, or both together, liked mixed stiifl: that’s 
woven. But 1 k?iow most men are whole fools or just devils, and 
he was a devil.” 

“ No, there’s good men, too,” said Harper’s wife, quickly, with 
a, hush on her cheek. ” 1 grant you they’re rare, but — well, Hiram 
has told you about me. Then i met my old man, and he believed in 
me, in spite ot knowing everything. When men thinks us good, it 
-goes half-way to maRing us good.” 

” One went halt- way toward making me wicked. He gave me 
that,’' returned Hannah, raising her hand to the great scar on her 
face, and hushing, too, but from a ditferent emotion, while a little 
shiver of hatred and fear passed over her body, coarse and unemo- 
tional though she seemed. ” Yes, as if 1 weren’t ugly enough. He’d 
have killed me if he could, for I used to light him for my young mis- 
tress’s sake, tooth and nail, as you may say. She had been a spoiled 
darling, and he had the pride ot Lucifer, so it was like thunder rag- 
ing against lightning; or, as my old mother used to say, ‘ When the 
man’s fire and the wife’s low, m comes the de’il, and blaws it in a 
low.’” 

” A little drop more tea?” consolingly urged Mrs. Harper. ” Oh! 
dear me, what a world of trouble and sorrow it is! And, even when 
things do better a bit, like with me, one can never be sure of keep- 
ing them. They are the best husbands that gets drowned always, 
or else, like mine, they’re not in the best of health. Well, w^ell, 
there’s rest at the end, we’ll hope.” 

” And i’ll live to plague him yet; it it was only for her child’s 
sake,” ended Hannah, with ahalf-sob ot which she seemed ashamed, 
drying her e3’^es quickly afterward with her knuckle, and ending in 
a hoarse, short laugh. 

Mrs. Harper had likewise dropped a tear more softly into her tea, 
whereupon she used her apron. Both felt in rare sympathy. The 
world had been so cruel to each of them. 

“ And so the child doesn’t belong to Mr. Quigg?” said the little 
woman, with a little laugh. ” It was a wonder to me at first, how 
he ever came to have such a sweet infant among all his old bones 
and stones, an’ nasty, grinning idols, it wasn’t likely, somehow. 
She reminds me of my own little girl that died, and I’ve nought but 
boys left. Well, 1 don’t understand it yet, nor ask to; but, if her 
mother was like your own child, it follows this ©ne ought to be as 
dear to you, as she is — which any one can see.” 

” Like my grandchild, and old fools is the worst fools,” laughed 
Hannah, witira giim humor against berself ; then, in sudden change 
to atmost solemnity, the subject being sacred, ” That babe just lives 
in the very core of my heart, like a pippin in an apple. What does 
:St. Paul say ^ ‘ Like as a nurse cherislieth her children.’ Well, he 

knew what he was talt;.ing about, 1 know— just by that.” 


JOY. 


2G 

There was a moment’s pause. Mrs. Harper was not strong in 
Scriptural qnotations. Then as usual she had recourse to the re* 
sources of the tea-pot. 

“ Here are the hot cakes too, just beautiful,” she added, bustling 
back from the oven with a delicious dish, at sight of which Han- 
nah’s eyes greedily glistened. But, just after the latter had taken a 
large bite out of her fresh scone, she happened to glance tosvard^the 
cottage window. She sprang up; her brown face turned of a tallow 
color; and she held by the back of the chair, her knees quaking. 

” Oh, Lord, ha’ mercy! It’s— it’s /wm/” 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

“ O, littel child, alias ! what is thy gilt. 

That never wroughtest sin as yet, pardS 
Why wilt thyn harde farder han thee spilt?” 

vChaucer. 

Hannah stifled a cry, and pointed outside with a shaking fore- 
finger. 

” Who?” cried Mrs. Harper, jumping up to her help. Looking 
out too, she saw a man leaning over the low wall and talking t» 
little Joy. At this distance he looked a handsome, dissolute scoun- 
drel, fit for a billiard-marker or the betting-ring ; for he wore his 
gray felt hat with a far too arrogant air, considering his coat was 
out at elbows. But on nearer view he had finer points, his head 
being nobly shaped, and if too heavy about the lower jaw, yet with 
a broad, low forehead and deep-set, gleaming eyes. His figure too, 
though disguised under his shabby clothes, was none the less of 
splendid build, broad-shouldered and tall, yet spare and supple; a 
body of iron and muscles of steel. He was more a Fra Diavolo, de- 
serted of followers and reduced to misery, than a mere vulgar 
villain. 

” It is! and he’s after the child. Oh, let me out to him? What’s 
this? Help me.” 

In reality, Hannah was almost fainting, but did not know the 
feeling. 

” Sit down; you’ll drop. Let me go; I’ll save her,” uttered Mrs. 
Harper in rapid tones. 

“See! he doesn’t even know her for certain in my Jim’s old 
pinafore. He’s speaking too easy and looks puzzled, that 1 can tell 
from here. When did he see her last?” 

” Not since she was in arms.” 

” Pshaw I But what right has he to her? Say quick!” 

‘‘He’s her father!” gasped Hannah. ‘‘He nearly killed, and 
then deserted the mother before the child was born. And now she’s 
hiding from him; and he’s after little Joy out of deviltry, maybe just 
to vex her, or to get hold of the poor babe’s little money, all that’s 
left from the big fortune he spent. He might kill my lamb — who 
knows?” 

“He sha’n’t get her, the villain! Stay quiet; don’t show your- 
self, he’d know you. I’ll be even with him.” 

And understanding the situation, with a lapidity taught by terri- 


JOY. 


27 

ble experience in the evil ways and slippery places of life, her heart 
hot with the maternal instinct of defending the young, Mrs. Harper 
opened the door softly with assumed carelessness. Both women now 
could hear, as well as see, a strange scene. 

“ What is your name, little girl?’' urged the man, in a sonorous^ 
foreign voice to which he lent a most persuasively musical intona- 
tion. 

“ What is ydurs? What is yours?” answered Joy from her perch, 
on the rock, looking up from under her brows with an innocence of 
fun, like impudence. 

“ But where do you live? Tell me.” 

” At home, of course.” 

And the child laughed contemptuously— laughed in his face. 

“And where is home? What do you call home? Is it that 
house?” 

“ Can you dance?” asked the sprite, dancing up and down on her 
stone and waving first one brown dimpled aim, then the other, in- 
vitingly toward him, in baby imitation of a little girl in spangles she 
had seen performing on a booth to her delight. She was tired of 
questions. Just as she ducked iu a final courtesy, Joy was snapped 
up from behind. 

“ Well, I never! just in time to catch you from toppling back- 
ward, and you might have broken your neck. Oh, what children 
is!” cried Mrs. Harper, in such a scolding voice as only mothers 
have the right to use, while holding the child tenderly on her arm, 

“Is that your little girl, madam?” asked the man by the wall, 
lifling his hat. 

Mrs. Harper turned her eyes on him, as if his presence had nofe 
been worih noticing till he spoke. 

“ Well! you don’t suppose she belongs to the parish, do you? Or 
am I too old or too ugly to have such a one?” She stood her ground 
boldly, like a woman whose cottage is her castle, and who is apt to 
take 'offense at any one likely to infringe her ,fights or privacy by 
looking over her garden wall, though it he only two and a half feet 
high. At the same time she tenderly pressed Joy’s head against her 
neck, who had begun to whimper. And as Mrs. Harper herself had 
black hair, though sleek, and a face once pretty, the man outside 
thought her maternity of the child possible enough — and was 
puzzled. 

“ 1 was told that the good people of these houses do sometimes 
take in lodgers. Do you do so too, perhaps, mj’' good lady?” 

“ Lodgers? not I. You needn’t appl}’’ here for accommodation for 
man or beast.” Mrs. Harper qualified this bold assertion in her 
own mind, by the fact that Hannah and the child were Hiram’s 
and her own friends; and that it was a wliite lie, if an}^ 

^ “There are a woman and a child — a little girl — lodging some- 
where near here. They are of my acquaintance, and I am searching 
for them. Can you perhaps help me?” 

“ A woman and a child — well, you see — there are so many come 
and go. ” 

“She is big, immense! and ugly!'' the manmade a significant 
gesture of disgust, checking himself as Mrs. Harper glibly inter- 
posed. 


^>8 


JOT. 


“ Ugly is she, your friend! well, I don’t know. There’s two not 
unlike that description sta^dug in the house of a sailor; there, that 
white one, d’ye see? Hush, my little bird, no, you must come in- 
doors now; your Minnie wants you. But they went out early this 
morning m his boat, 1 believe across the bay, and may not be back 
till nightfall. That’s them, most likely. But you’ll excuse me, my 
old man won’t like my staying out talking to a strangei.” She 
G:lanced apprehensively back at the cottage door, and with a sharp 
'little nod retreated, calling, “Jim! Willy! here, leave that play at 
once; I want you,” 

And, to the boys’ surprise, their mother sent them off on long 
•errands with the loud voice and dispatch of a termagant. 

“ There! he’s off down the road; and the3'^’re gone in the opposite 
direction, so can answer no questions,” she announced triumpliantly, 
hut under her breath, once more entering the cottage. Hannah was 
hidden by the door as if ready for a spring. At several moments 
during the late interview, short as it Irad been, it was all she could 
do to prevent herself rushing out.. 

“Come into the back room; no one can see in there,” went on 
Mrs. Harper, locking the cottage door as she spoke. ‘ My dear, you 
heard— it’s true enough; he’s after you. But I’ve set hiiir to watch 
Joe Beasley’s house; wdio has taken his own sister and her girl back 
to their home, and may stay all night with them himself.” 

“ Still she’s not safe here, my own lamb, my curly-locks,” cried 
Hannah, who had snatched up the child, and was covering her with 
kisses, against which her darling saucily rebelled. “ Oh! 30U did 
wonders, and may the Lord reward yoir an’ bless you! But we 
must fly — we must hide.” 

Her stahvart form was strangely agitated, and then Mrs. Harper 
perceived that she grasped still unawares a terrible w^eapou, an iron 
bar, used to secure the door at night, which in Hannah’s brawny 
arms would have been a terrible weapon descending on an euem3^ 
She looked truly dangerous, with her eyes glowing; for all her 
strength of body and immovability of purpose, as of a rock, had re- 
turned to her. 

“ I was took aback, 1 71 / and foolish; and my head is never 

quick at thinking. But now' I know wdiat to expect at least— and 
there’s no time to lose,” Hannah ejaculated. 

There was no time to lose, indeed. The two women consulted to- 
gether in haste, and then, thanks to Mrs. Harper’s quickness of in- 
* vention, a plan was fixed on. 

“ If you could have stayed, my old man would keep his own 
house and those in it against five such men as that,” Mrs. Harper 
suggested, with pardonable bombast, and a regretful look at the 
child, who was contentedly seated on the floor hugging a kitten 
almost to suffocation, with little chirrups of laughter. “ It seems' 
such a pity!” 

“ Must is my master,” returned Hannah, shortly. “ Once inside 
Mr. Quigg’s house, we’re safer; for, if he out there tries police, wdio 
would take the child from sate hands and give it to such a ruffian? 
Don’t tell u\Q\—respect(ibiluy, that’s wdiat helps folks more nor any- 
thing else! Prove your case, sa^'s we, or Peter Quigg, when I put 


JOY. 2^ 

him up to it. And who would believe a Spaniard like that, in our 
Christian country?” 

Even while delivering what she no doubt thought these upright 
and comn’endable remarks, Hannah had been undressing herself. 
In a few minutes she was once more clothed; but this time needing 
the aid of Mrs. Harper’s fingers and conjugal experience. 

” Tuck in that comforter tight and tidj^; that’s sailor fashion. 
And don’t fear pulling down your sou’- wester over your face, dear;, 
my man wears'it so. Now — ” 

There was a complete 'metamorphosis! Hannah wmre a sailor’® 
rough pea-coat and canvas trousers, a big comforter pulled up round 
the lower part of her face, and a llappine: sou’-wester almost con- 
cealing her features. She was so nearl}'- unrecognizable that even 
Joy, who now si ared wide-eyed, with one finger in her mouth, would 
hardl)^ go near her. 

“ Is she frightened, and no wonder, at her old nurse making such 
a guy of herself? But it’s only a game, my precious: w^e’re going 
to play ‘ Lie Still.’ ” 

Mrs. Harper was meanwiiile flinging [lannah’s own clothes into a 
big washing-basket, covering them with half of a clean sheet. 

” There’s a nice little nest for her. I’ll put you in, missy, and 
we’ll cover you and take you for a ride.” 

Fortified by Hannah’s assurances of the delights of this game, 
with promises exacted and given to lie as still!— as still!— and never 
wriggle or stir, for an organ-grinder was on the road, the child al- 
lowed herself to be snugly bestowed and covered up. 

Mercy on us! he is out there, walking up and down — and look- 
ing doubtful. He’s keeping guard betwixt Joe Beasley’s and this,’” 
murmured Hannah. ‘‘ Could he know me:” 

” No living soul would; still, if you’re feared — ” 

“ No, no. It’s best— here goes, life or death! For, if he wants 
the child, he’ll have to do for me,” said Hannah, bravely. 

‘‘ W ait ; can you smoke a pipe? Just lake a draw or two at least, 
as you pass by, and he couldn’t tell you then.” 

Mrs. Harper was right. Two minutes later they went down the 
road, carrying the washing-basket between them, and passing the 
stranger under his very nose. He only saw the little woman of the 
cottage talking sharply to her burly sailor husband. 

” Hurry, John, do. Ton are so slow, and you know they’re al- 
ways angry it the washing’s late.” 

The round-shouldered seaman with the rolling gait only answered 
in a monos^dlable, and smoked placidly, as the Spaniard’s gaze rested 
on him an instant. Placidly! and how her heart quaked! Once 
round a corner out of bis sight, both hurried along by the shore, 
avoiding curious neighbors. There were some bathing-boxes at a 
little distance, still laid up for winter, but of which Harper had the 
care. His wife pulled out the key of one of these, and her false 
spouse and the basket disappeared inside. In a wonderfully short 
time, while Mrs. Harper kept anxious watch, Hannah, in Her owu 
attire, came out again, leading Joy, vastly pleased at.her release, but 
prattling of the funny game. 

Then both women looked fearfully round, and running whenever 


30 


JOY. 


not iikely to be noticed, they gained the market-place of the little 
town. 

A coach ran daily between Sandybeach and the smoky, bigger 
town inland they were bound for as a goal of safety. It was just 
starling on its return journey. 

“ Any seats, ladies, do you say?” cried the guard. “Just one left 
inside, and— yes, the little girl can sit on your knee. Hurry up, 
hurry up — we’re late.” 

Next minute, Hannah and the child were inside. The horn sound- 
ed. Putting her head out as the}^ started, to nod farewell to Mrs. 
Harper, with relief at last and joyful elation, Hannah recognized a 
pair of black, beady eyes, and jquickly drew herself in again, feeling 
iis if she had just seen a venomous insect. 

There was dirty Josey, the organ-grinder, standing among the lit- 
tle crowd that alwaj^s gathered to see the coach start. 

And he had seen her, too — and he smiled. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Loud-voiced night, with the wild wind blowing 
Many a tune ; 

Stormy night, with white rain-clouds going 
Over the moon; 

Mystic night, that each minute changes— 

Now as blue as the mountain-ranges 
Far, far away ; 

Now as black as a heart where strange is 
Joy, night or day.” 

In spite of the second shock on seeing Josey, Hannah soon began 
to recover her spirits in the coach. 

After all, when four fine horses were whirling one out of the little 
town, and past milestones at a spanking pace, needs must she should 
feel exhilarated. She had escaped with such superior cunning, too! 
Her large brown face wreathed into a grotesque smile ol humor, as 
she chuckled over the remembrance of what a queer figure she had 
cut in man’s clothes. 

And now they were off and away, and who could overtake them? 

So Hannah laughed in her heart, and sung a paean of exultant 
victory over the enemy, though in silence. Yet, as little things will 
strangely mix with great in our queer brains, even in supreme mo- 
ments, a shade did occasionally tall over the brightness of her exalt- 
ed mood. She regretted that second plate of buttered Scotch cakes. 
They would all have been cold and sodden, too, by the time that Mrs. 
Harper returned. What a pity he had not appeared five minutes 
later! 

Ah! Hannah, Hannah, greedy woman, as it there were no greater 
troubles to think about. Are there no dangers yet to be carefully 
considered— avoided, if possible; lastly, at worst, fought against 
even to death? ’ 

With a slowly awakening sense of dull horror at her own levity in 
thus^ amusing herself, as if a hunted hare, having doubled and gained 
respite, should play, while yet knowing the hounds are in full ciy 
on her track, Hannah shook herself together, and thought — what 
nextf 


JOY. 


31 


To hei vast surprise, nearly an hour had gone by. Baby Joy, 
who had shartd her nurse’s jubilee at first, in delight herseli at their 
rapid journey, was now leaning a heavy, sleepy head on Hannah’s 
breast. The light was fading. Cold was creeping over their half of 
the round, darkening world as it rolled nightward. The stars began 
to pierce the tar, twilight distance overhead with silver specks ; each 
point like a thought of another word; of, maybe, another life there; 
of eternity. 

Hannah did not think out such thoughts perhaps, but yet inchoate 
germs of them troubled her brain. She shivered; and the influences 
of darkness and the night began to steal over her. The body is tired 
then, and its powers cannot shield the spirit when the latter is stir- 
ring and restless. 

She must think what she should try next; but she never had been 
good at thinking. Even in old days, her dear mistress had been 
head, she the willing hands. 

Witli that, she withdrew the shawl a moment under which the 
child slept on her knee. Its cheeks were red as a poppy with heat. 
Long, curling lashes fringed the closed eyes that were such wells of 
liquid dark light. What a pretty, soft creature it was; so helpless, 
so innocent. All the womanly fibers of the nurse’s heart stirred as 
she gazed at it; the maternal instinct that is so beautifully strong 
in the very animals to defend their tender young, even to death, rose 
more powerfully within her than ever in her life before, dearly as 
she had loved her charge. 

The more dangers she ran for its sake, the more passionately she 
was resolved to risk all. 

“ Sleep soft, my pet. Your mother shall never need to ask poor 
Hannah why she didn’t take good care of her child,” she silently 
murmured, feeling quite weak with the flood of tenderness, of old 
recollections, and present gratitude to God for their escape, that 
overcame her. 

A burly, dissatisfied looking man on the opposite side just then 
pulled out his watch and grumbled, 

“ Call that good going! Humph! If 1 had taken the new rail- 
way that runs within tw^o miles of Sandybeach, I’d have been in the 
town by now, and in mj’" own house,” and he looked round and 
nodded, as if all the passengers ought to take an equal interest in his 
loss of time. 

Hannah turned cold. A new apprehension seized her. 

“ Did you— did you say, sir, that the new steam-coach,” she stam- 
mered, forgetting the right term to use, ‘‘ that it gets in before us, 
please?’' 

” 1 did, ma’am; 1 said the railway. Half an hour before us.” 
And the big man tapped his stick ponderousl}^ on the floor, as if 
that settled the question. 

Hannah felt as if Ihe ground was cut from under her feet; she that 
had believed themselves so cleverly escaped for this night. 

Why, they two would be waiting for her at the other end I 

Some minutes passed in silent consternation. Then she thought 
to herself. 

” I’ll get out when we get into the town, and make my wav 
through the back streets. They’ll be w%'iiting lor me at the ‘ Dragon. ’ 


JOY. 


32 

As the coach entered the sleeping town, she had it stopped, there- 
fore, and slipped down trembling, half expecting to feel her arm 
clutched in the darkness. It was raining, and the streets were sloppy 
and slipper}^ as Hannah hurried alonff through the night. The lamps 
were tew, and she avoided their light, for tear of betrayal, as much 
as possible; but the darkness was even more grewsome and terrible. 
At every corner, at every blacker shadow from a boarding, by the 
pit-mouths ot deep doorwaj^s, her knees knocked together and her 
heart beat rapidly. 'For now here, and the next instant, though she 
had momentarily escaped, there, might be hidden the lurking fornis 
ready to spring out upon her. And the child was so heavy; with it 
in her arms she was helpless to defend themselves both. Women 
often suffer worse agonies from their imaginations than in real 
dangers. 

So, like a shadow through the shadows, a black figure in the 
blackness, wet, weary, with strained arms and frightened heart, poor 
Hannah hurried and stumbled on. She never thought of turning 
aside to some inn or lodging for shelter. As a hunted animal to its 
lair, so she ran on, not able to think, but with a dim belief that at 
home she must be safe. There were bolts and bars at the ‘ ‘ muse- 
um,” and Hiram’s strong arm; and behind Peter Quigg’s feeble 
person the vague, immense mightiness of the law, as Planuah’smind 
regarded it with awe. She was only a slow-witted creature, but a 
faithful servant — that was all. 

“ The law would never take an innocent child from under a good 
man’s root, where it will get a decent Christian upbringing, to give 
it to that black-hearted, foreign scoundrel —no, not if he M^as a thou- 
sand times its father! Or else the law is neither common-sen^ nor 
justice in England,” she thought, with a profound belief and 
triumph in the righteousness and excellence of our island’s institu- 
tions and inhabitants, as compared with all the rest of the foreign 
wmrld. Poor Hannah! one might hope that her beautiful faith in 
the law’s protection might never be shaken! 

And now she was among the silent timber-yards. A few more 
minutes and the dark old brick house, with its inclosing walls, 
loomed through the gloom. How she blessed its sight! 

She hurried up to the door, which was evidently locked and barred 
for the night, as no light was visible in the hall nor in Mr. Quigg’s 
stud}^ 

“The master has not come home,” she pronounced to herself," 
with a sigh. “ He would be sitting up till far later nor this, if he 
was.” 

She rang timidly several times, then loudly, growing bolder with - 
a sense of increasing danger. 

Still in vain. 

Becoming terrified, she ran round to that side of the house where 
Hiram slept, and flung gravel against the panes of his window^ 
Kever a sound! True, he slept as heavily as a log, Imt still that peb- 
ble shower of her last handful w-as violent enough to rouse the Seven 
Sleepers. 

Ah! She struck her forehead with her palm. What an idiot she 
was! Of course, Hiram was at his public-house; the master wms 


JOY. 33 

away, so he was having a spree, and might not be back for hours 
yet — and he had taken the key! 

The child, which she had put down on the ground during her 
efforts, clung to her skirts cold and frightened, begging to go in- 
doors, 

“ Me want in! me want in!” 

The cry cut Hannah to the heart. 

‘‘ Hiram’s locked the door, my pretty. Hush, hush, don’t cry. 
<Oh, God, help us!” This she murmured in her heart.) 

“ Put-ty me through the window!” exclaimed little Joy, in child- 
ish jubilee, trotting toward the back of the house. It was an old 
game to let her creep through the kitchen- window bars, when tired 
of play in the garden, and she was delighted at the revived recollec- 
tion. To Plahnali it was like an inspiration fiom on high sent 
through the child’s lips. 

The kitchen window was shuttered and barred, of course; besides, 
it looked into the garden, the door of which was locked. But here, 
at the side of the house, a small, square window stared tliem in the 
face. It was near the ground, but not barred, being a mere loophole 
made to light the entry to a side-door, Hannah snatched up a stone. 
"With a few blows of her vigorous fist she dashed in the glass, which 
was soldered into the wall, then cleared the opening of jagged bits 
carefully, feeling it with her hands. 

“ Now, there is a nice little door to get in by,” she whispered, and 
then with exultation put the child through — oh, so tenderly! 

Joy dropped inside with a cry more’ startled than frightened, 
changing to a laugh of satisfaction on finding herself sate on her 
feet. Was there ever a braver little maid? thought her old nurse. 
f3he was inside, safe now within four strong walls, if even Hannah 
had to spend the night outside, crouched in the wet bushes. But 
another idea struck the latter; she felt herself quite fertile in expe- 
dients. 

” Could you reach me up the door-key, my sweet? a big key, and 
it’s hanging at the back of the door,” she called through the broken 
window, persuasively. 

” ’£s,” said Joy, promptly; and thereupon slow baby steps went 
pattering in the darkness away toward the kitchen. 

” Not there, here— here at the back of this door,” entreated Han- 
nah, in a loud whisper. ” Wherever are you going, child?” 

Joj’’ came back with a very lingering footfall, rubbing one hand 
along the wall, as if trying to stay herself against the influence of 
the voice outside representing controlling power. With all her 
:sweet obedience in words, she did love her own way as to deeds. 

‘‘ Me wanted my old dolly, first. She’s in the kitchen.” 

” Oh, child, child, would you leave your poor nurse out here in 
the cold and wet?” 

There came a gurgle of half-disbelieving laughter at the possibil- 
ity of possessing such power. 

In a minute. I’ll let you in in one minute; but my dolly’s cry- 
ing for me — 1 can hear her.” 

The dolly in question was a charred torso, rejected and in dis- 
favor when they two had left the museum, probably now in the 


JOY. 


34 

cinder-lieap or burned. ] t was hard to lose the possibility of shel- 
ter and warmth for a toy like that. 

“ Joy! give me the key, or I’ll beat you! (Oh how children drive 
one crazy sometimes. Lord, forgive me!) My darling, let me in, 
quick, quick! The organ-grinder is coming, and he’ll kill poor 
Hannah.” 

At that cry, unmistakably genuine, there was a hurried fum- 
bling, the clank of a key dropped with an alarmed ” O my!” Then 
it was found; and two small hands put it into Hannah’s fingers 
eagerly stretched down. 

A few minutes later and the good woman stood inside the old 
house, and soon bolted and barred herself against the possible chance 
of any veritable organ-grinder. Hext she stirred the banked-up 
kitchen fire, struck a light and found some milk and bread that 
made a hasty supper for the child, who was rubbing her dark eyes, 
divided betwixt sleep and a longing to find her horrible old doll. 
“ And now Joy will go to her nice bed,” said Hannah enticingly, 
taking up her nursling on one arm and holding the light. 

” Yes,” said the little one, drowsily, ” me tired of trabbling. ” 

Half an hour later, Joy was breathing gently in her cot, shielded 
from the light. As none of her clothes, except what she wore, had 
been carried away in their sudden flight, only the child’s outer gar- 
immts w.ere taken off. Then poor Hannah, who had never yet un- 
tied her own bonnet, her whole mind had been so occupied with 
fears lest tier pet should be over-tired, stole softly out in the dark. 
She had no second candle’ and Joy wa:j not used to being left with- 
out one. Still, by the kitchen file glow Hannah managed to make 
a fair meal of what remains the child had left. Then the tired 
woman rested herself in her own straw chair, thinking to wait up 
for Hiram and tell him all that had happened. Hiram was foolish, 
but still a man’s a man; and confidence is a comfort when a woman 
has come through such a succession of adventures as had Hannah 
that day. How glad she was to rest! Oh, how sweet it was to 
grow warm and dry, and not feel pursued and hunted any more. 

Half an hour passed. Hannah found herself wondering whether 
Peter Quigg would return to-morrow. He was expected at that 
date; and truly she trusted he would, for however poor a masculine 
creature he might be, the house was his; and by further reasoning, 
so, in a manner, were those therein, whom he and the law would 
keep safe. He was always stirred, too, at mention of the woman he 
loved, and would surely say, his little person swelling with dignity, 
that the child and nurse he had taken under his roof at her dear re- 
quest should never — 

Hannah had a touch of poetry in her natureas of humor; but still, 
poetry and all, she nearly nodded into the fireplace that glowed 
dullj’’ at her feet in the kitchen’s gloom. 

What icas that f Surely some faint noise at the window-fasten- 
ings had awakened her. The frightened woman sat upright with a 
start, and wondered if she had dreamed that persons outside were 
trying the bars; while she had dropped off asleep, imagining a 
situation in which her little master’s tender heart and the law’s maj- 
esty had overcome all enemies in a manner touching and sublime. 

She listened now : nothing, no one to be heard. Still, it was very 


JOY. 


35 


ghostly and uncanny sitting here alone. And Hiram would proba- 
bly come back slightly tipsy. She would go to bed, and tell him all 
when his head was clear by morning. 

As she went upstairs, accordingly, Hannah noticed that the rain 
was over, and the moon out again; for its beams shone through the 
skyligiit. On the landing— opening a door softly, so as not to wake 
the child — she entered into a small passage-room, between the nurs- 
ery and the other museum chambers. The moonlight shone full 
and bright on the window, outside which she saw that a small, 
oddly shaped object was moving! Hannah stood still, her heart 
thumping violently, as she asked herself again, lohat was that? She 
was on the second story; yet outside she could now distinguish that 
a human hand was rubbing softly along the panes. It was a large, 
strong hand, with no visible person attached to it, but a portion of 
coat sleeve. And it was feeling, feeling back and forward over the 
narrow sill, and the iron bars, and the glass which the latter pro- 
tected. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ A wee bush is better than nae bield.”— Proi;er6. 

While she stood still, during a few moments of freezing horror, 
Hannah understood it all. A few feet beneath the second-story 
window at which she gazed there was a heavy cornice above the 
ground -floor window, which miglit afford foothold to a man. This 
projection could just be reached, though with difflculty, from the 
brick wall inclosing the gravel sweep and the laurel-trees. And 
these ,sarae trees would help an active man to mount the wall, al- 
though the latter was so narrow and crumbling that only a cat or a 
monkey could have crept along it, she would have sworn — till now. 

Hannah could see there was no ladder visible outside. The hand 
seemed touching the bars with difficulty. Yes: he was trying to 
hoist himself on the sill; but, unless he could get a better hand- 
grip, could it be done? She did not pause to consider this; but, in 
her wild terror, onl}'’ knew at once that, if these two men were so 
desperate as to try to force their way in at such hazard to life and 
limb, they must be resolved to steal the child at any risk, and mur- 
der might come of it. For Hannah felt, stoically, that she must 
defend the little one with her life; ay! with every finger and nail of 
her hand. 

A moment she thought of dashing into the next room, Joy’s room, 
and locking herself in^ then screaming for help, through the open 
window, into the night. 

No use! There was no living soul in all the waste of timber- 
yards and coal stores around. Hiram would come none the sooner. 
lliey outside would only know, for certain, wiiich room to attack. 

Then a vengeful idea came so suddenly into Hannah’s heavy mind 
that the devil himself seemed to be whispering it in her ear. AYhat 
if she waited till both men were on that narrow sill— she might 
be able to push them down? “Push them down! push them 
down!” seemed ringing in her ears; a red flash came before her 
eyes, as she crept nearer and nearer, holding her breath. What if 


JOY. 


8G 

both did break their necks? lor it was a long way to the ground. 
It would be a good riddance! The child would grow up safe; her 
dear mistress have nothing to fear! It meant lest aftterward to Han- 
nah herself — no more scars on her face; no insults, or worse, to 
those she loved; no moie of this hiding for years, or being hunted 
down as now. She felt the muscles of her throat swelling painfully, 
her brows contracting, her eyeballs distending, as with clinched 
hands she peered past the heavy curtain. 

Without knowing it, Hannah was verily a murderess at that mo- 
ment. 

Now two hands grasped the window -bars. A dark form impelled 
by some help from below, suddenly appeared and crouched on the 
sill, while a head with matted hair tried to look in and search the 
roonj, which latter was fortunately almost in utter obscurity. The 
man was Josey, the organ-grinder. Whispers between two voices 
could be faintly heard. Then something of steel gleamed in the 
moonlight, and a slight rasping noise began upon one of the bars. 
They were filing it, to force their way in. 

Hannah felt more bitter disappointment than fear. It was only 
dosey on the sill, and precarious though his position was, yet he had 
firm hold of one of the bars, even while sawing another. She did 
not wish to kill Josey, but Gaspard da Silva. 

Then Hannah’s knees quaked a little under her, as her own 
thought became clear. ‘‘ Lead us not into temptation,” and “ Thou 
Shalt do no murder,” seemed written before her in pale letters on 
the wall. Her imagination recalled how the Lord’s Prayer and the 
Ten Commandments were inscribed tablet- wise, thus, on either side 
of the end window in her chapel. The scratching and biting of the 
file went on low but steadily. Her own thoughts grew clearer and 
more luminous meanwhile. It was not the devil now, but her good 
angel, that came and spoke to her mind. What did it matter, after 
all, she thought in a dogged way, if these two did kill her? It 
would only be a few blows, perhaps, a grasp on her throat, and her 
life would be out without much pain. After all, death was nothing 
to make a great fuss about (so think the poor, or sometimes the very 
miserable); still, life was sweet— and who would rear the child like 
herself? That w^as wmrth a struggle. 

In this w’ay, though her ideas in general flowed so sluggishly, still, 
quickened by the sense of danger, perchance inspired by some invis- 
ible presence— who can tell? with each grind of the instrument out- 
side, Hannah’s thoughts of how to find speedy safet}’' within the 
house itself succeeded each other, like light — flash after flash. 

To lock herself in Joy’s room, as she had before thought. Alas! 
she now knew the nursery doors had no keys. Hannah berself had 
been neglectful; had mislaid them, or the cbild had taken them to 
play with. Oh, her own carelessness! And there was no sufficiently 
heavy furniture in there to barricade the doors for two minutes 
against strong men. i 

If she caught up the sleeping child, and tried to hide elsewhere in 
the house? 

” Yes; but tcliere? And how could she trust so young a child not 
to cry out, or by a murmur betrav thein both? Joy w’as a swmet little 
creature, but petted. The rest of the house, too, was all locked up. 


JOY. 


37 

Peter Quigg trusted his museum cliambers to no care but bis own; 
even bis own rooms were always closed in bis absence, he was so 
sensitive about bis books and papers, and be could not bear the 
thought of any meddling with them, There was not a spot left but 
the stairs, kitchen, and Hiram’s pantry, for the bouse was not large. 

A.nd down there, Hannah could think of no place but the water- 
butt or the flour-barrel to hide in. Oh! what rcas to be done? 

At this juncture of agonized frenzy of mind, when thought 
stopped short, Hannah mechanically put out one hand to support 
herself against the side- wall, as she still crouched in the corner by 
the window. Her fangers touched something. She gave a great start 
of almost disbelieving joy, then felt it softly, 

A door was beside her into one of the museum chambers, that one 
devoted by the deceased doctor to rare skulls and skeletons, and the 
key was left in it ! ■ There were three doors in this passage-room, one 
leading to the stairs, one to the nursery, and this one. 

If only the men outside could be tempted in here! It w^as a corner 
room, with no other exit ; she would have them in a trap ! 

Almost as soon as she had thought, Hannah turned the key 
gingerly with trembling fingers, so as to give the men no trouble. 
Then, with a catlike footfall for such a large woman, she crept 
round by the walls, keeping in the dark. Luckily the moonlight 
only fell a little way into the room, and that in the middle. The 
passage-door had no key either, but she drew its bolt, which, being 
rusty, made a slight noise. 

The ‘rasping at the window instantly stopped. Hannah’s heart 
stopped, too; she neither stirred nor breathed for some seconds. It 
was not that she believed the two men outside could be frightened 
away: she knew one of them, her former master, too well. He was 
capable of firing through the window if he saw any outline of a 
figure, and then who could help the child? 

C r-n-ch! grr-ind! The noise went on again. Hannah saw the 
hand lift one bar away; the work began at the second. 

No time to be lost! 

She crept on now toward the nursery door on the further side of 
the window, thus having made the tour of the room. There w^ere a 
set of foreign, savage weapons hung on the wall that she passed, 
long, thin assegais, poison-tipped darts. She took down several /)f 
these, and, with the cunning of weak creatures when trying to evade 
the strong, lightly leaned a row of javelins against the nursery door, 
if one slipped on the floor, the game was over. Still the light rasp- 
ing outside went on. She had done, and crept now behind the 
window-curtain, that was luckily both long and heavy. On one side 
of her was the door, behind which little Joy was sleeping peacefully; 
close on the other was the window, with the two villains outside of 
it. She was between the child and danger. 

The file stopped. There was a clinking sound of other tools. 
Then Hannah felt a draught of cold night air as the window was 
pushed up; there was a slight shuffling noise, and both robbers got 
into the room. 

The nurse could have touched them. They brushed tlie curtain 
folds close to her body. 

There was a murmured colloquy, and the light of a small dark lan- 


V 


38 JOY. 

tern was flashed round the room. One of the men stepped toward 
the passage door. 

“Bolted inside; she may have come in by here then,” he mur- 
mured. “ You saw the light move through this room, you say. Ah! 
pig, beast, what are you doing over there?” 

The words were in Spanish, but Hannah understood them, though 
muttered quite low. 

Josey had come close to the nursery door, and was touching Han- 
nah’s palisade ot weapons with his finger-tips. Her fingers felt 
itching to tear him away, and she felt suftocated behind the curtain, 
half hearing, half divining his movements, not daring to look. 

“ Let those sticks alone, you innocent. That dooi is not used, as 
any one with eyes might see. That rubbish belongs to the little 
fool’s museum.” 

“All! then let us go in at once. He keeps heaps of old gold and 
silver, they say. Holy saints! it is a sin to be as covetous as he is. 
It will be a good deed to lighten his conscience for him. Quick — 
come!” 

“ Drop that spear; you shall not go in.” 

“ Shall not — ” 

“ No. 1 say so. The child is the first object, and 1 employed 
you to get her. Don’t look at me like that— 1 have stabbed better 
men for less. Be quick, and obey.’* 

“ Y'ou had best be quiet then, if 1 am to be quick,” muttered 
Josey, insultingly, as the other’s foot touched by chance an arrow 
and brought it sliding to the ground. Both were silent for an in- 
stant; nothing stirred in the house. They could not hear Hannah’s 
heart beats just beside them, behind the curtain, though to herself 
these seemed so loud. 

“ Bab! you see, I am not so used to being a thief as you yet,” 
angrily uttered the le.ader, with scornful impatience. 

“ Well, senor, we never know what we may come to. P&t! Am 
la dog?” 

“ No, but 1 have hired you for to night, at least. Look here, little 
Jose, don’t quarrel; get me the child first, th.en— why, the house 
wdll be empty enough, it we have got rid of the nurse, and j^ou can 
stay and amuse yourself.” 

Hannah heard stoically. Hew wdiole soul had been possessed with 
a longing to spring out each moment they approached the nursery 
door. But the knowledge that she was to be put out of the way 
did not aftect hei sensibly at the time. 

The men moved cautiously across the floor fo the other door. One 
eye watched them now closely from past the curtain’s edge. 

The handle was softly turned, and — not to wake the supposed 
sleepers in the next room — the lantern was closed. 

A tew steps, and they had passed inside. 

At the same moment, there was a sudden spring of a heavy body 
across the floor. Hannah had darted out from behind the curtain, 
and dashing herself against the door, closed, locked, and bolted it 
above and below" in scarce!}" a few breathless seconds. 

A smothered yell came from within the further room. The two 
burglars w"ere caught fast in a trap. 


JOY. 


3 ^ 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Three merry boys, and three merry boys, 

And three merry boys are we, 

As ever did sing: in a hempen string 
Under the gallows-tree. ’ 

J. Fletcher. 

TherF was a minute’s silence inside the skull-room. The two 
midnight marauders had rushed to the window to see what means 
of escape lay there. Then, seeing it was barred and high, they hung 
themselves upon the door, and, with all their strength, tried to 
force it. 

At the same time, with all her strength— which w^as great for a 
woman — Hannah dragged a heavy, iron-bound chest, that stood 
near, and barricaded the door. At any other moment ot less excite- 
ment, she could hardly have stirred the great chest a few inches; 
but, though the lock was strong, she dared not trust to that alto- 
gether; tor already she heard those inside picking it with some in- 
strument. Then, with still frenzied exertions, Plannah piled more 
furniture behind her barrier, till it would have withstood the assault 
of half a regiment. 

Through the noise of these heavy weights being heaped on each 
other, she heard little Joy screaming loudl}’^ for her in childish 
terror, and a voice from inside the skull-room beginning a parley. 

“ Hannah, is that you? 1 know it is. Listen; we will not hurt 
you. I only came to see my child; that is my right.” 

“Yes, Meeses Nurse, we only came for to see the leetle child. 
Let us out, now, and you shall have much money.” 

“Hsh! wretch. Hannah, hear me. 1 am sorry that 1 did ever 
hurt you. You are alone in the house, we know. You cannot keep 
us in here long. But, if you will open the door peacefully, now, 
and let me see my child once, just once! 1 will promise to go aw^ay; 
and — and you shall never see me more.” 

“ Hiram! Hiram!” shrieked Hannah, for all answer, at the top of 
her voice. “ Be quick, and bring the pistols.” 

Then, hoping to stun her adversaries by this apparent show of 
help, she hastened into the nursery, caught the sobbing child to her 
breast — next snatching up her bonnet and shawl, that lay^ beside the 
cot as she had left them an hour ago, she prepared to rush out of 
this house ot danger. 

As she opened the door leading to the stairs, another terror met 
her. A ghost like, small figure barred the way, presenting a pistol 
at her wdth one hand, and holding a lighted candle in the other. 

“ Stop— stop, thief. 111 fire, if you stir.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Quigg, sir; it’s me, it’s Hannah,” entreated the poor 
wmman, ready to drop on her knees from the double shock. “ The 
Lord be thanked! I never knew you were at home. Save me, save 
my child from those murdering villains!” 

Peter Quigg, who was in his night-shirt, a red dressing-gown, 
and slippers, still pointed the pistol, and gazed at her, thundei struck 


JOY. 


40 

in liis turn. He looked indeed a comic little oddity. He had come 
home that evenina:, and, being tired, had gone to rest earl}'^; hence 
Hiram had treated himself to leave of absence. But Peter did not 
understand Hannah’s appearance. 

In a few words, the nurse explained all, adding, as she pointed, 
terrified, to the door, 

“ Fly, make haste; ’tis himself— Gaspard da Silva! He 11 kill us 
all!” . , 

That instant a smashing sound of breakage was heard inside the 
room. Evidently, in their fury, the prisoners were destroying all 
the skulls piled so carefully round the walls, and the skeletons 
found in the early strata, and bones of cave-dwellers, that were of 
the highest scientific value. 

“ Goths! brutes!” shouted Peter Quigg, in a rage, as the sounds 
of destiuction went on. ” What are they doing? The finest collec- 
tion in England— in the world— will be ruined! Save yourself, 
Hannah, and the child. Send the police, send Hiram; but 1 must 
go in there and stoD them. What they are doing can never be 
mended.” 

In v^ain Hannah almost went on her knees to persuade him to 
seek safety. 

“ I have my pistols,” was all he said, the timid little man sunk in 
the curator, and he implored her in turn to escape quickly, that he 
might pull away all her defenses. So she fled out of the house in 
the darkness, with the child clinging round her neck, folded hastily 
in her shawl. Tliey left the valiant small soul behind them, intent 
on defending his treasures of science, the property of his father 
before him. 

Just down the road, under the gleam of a lamp, an unsteady 
figure was seen approaching by slight lurches. It was Hiram. He 
stared in half-tipsy surprise as Hannah caught him by the arm. 
” There are robbers in the house, and they’ll kill the master.” 

” Kill my master! I’d like to see them at it. Where are they? 
just show them to me! I’ll break their heads, or my name’s not 
Hiram!” 

So saying thickly, the really brave fellow looked about him with 
a savage expression, but never stirred a step. 

“ Oh, Hiram! Hiiam! You’ve been drinking. Make haste home, 
or you’ll be too late. House up, man — Lord help us! what’s that?” 

J’or a dull report reached their ears, the sound coming probably 
clearer through the passage window leH open by the thieves. Hiram 
started as if electrified into sobriety, then tore ofi: toward the mu- 
seum, running at his utmost speed; only shouting back to Hannah, 

” Get the police, woman! I’ll see to the master.” 

Hannah did her best, poor , weary soul. It was not long before 
the tramp of constables was heard echoing down the silent road, as 
the police hastened through alternate darkness and moonlight toward 
the old brick house. 

Hiram, too, doubtless, did his best. But still! but sdll! he had 
neglected his duty that night, and did not get back, being tipsy, as 
quickly as he even otherwise might! However, this last considera- 
tion perhaps made little real difterence so far as his master’s fate 
was concerned. 


JOY. 


41 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ III blows the wind that profits nobody.''— Henry VI. 

With the instinct of a hunted hare, doubling back on her track, 
Hannah had fled once more to Sandy beach. 

She had taken the earliest train thither, after sitting till dawn in 
the waiting-room. 

She did not know what had happened in the museum after she 
had fled, but only felt in a stupid way that she must get away, 
away; for the police might ask her who the child was, if she re- 
turned and found them on a hot scent after the burglars; and she 
had been told by her mistress once not to say this; and her head 
was so dull at understanding intricacies of any kind; besides, Mrs. 
Harper was a friend, and also she had still their trunks, and any 
other person might have stared on seeing a woman claim shelter, al- 
most utterly exhausted, and carrying a half-dressed child in her 
shawl. Furthermore, here Hannah would be in easy communication 
with Hiram, who could write to her what had happened. 

But Hannah heard this last long before Hiram’s slow fingers put 
pen to paper, or that he had learned her retreat. Old Harper, the 
sailor, brought in a newspaper that same evening of Hannah’s re- 
turn, containing a thrilling account of a daring burglary in the ad- 
jacent town of . Slowly the horrified nurse read out (helped by 

Mrs. Harper’s quicker eyes and tongue) how that Mr. Peter Quigg, 
living in his own house, known popularly as “ the museum,” hear- 
ing robbers, as was supposed, had apparently tried to defend his val • 
uable collection of objects of scientific and artistic value. He had 
attacked the intruders, it seemed; who thereupon had overpowered, 
disarmed, and mortally shot him with his own revolver. His servant, 
coming home, heard the report, and sent a woman he met to fetch 
the police, then he himself captured one burglar, though the other 
one escaped — the latter being an organ-grinder in the town, it was 
said; a notoriously bad character. Mr. Quigg had only lived a short 
time after he had been wmunded, being understood to murmur with 
generous feeling that his terrible hurt might have been accidental. 
His last words were, ” Tell Rachel — ” and he died. The supposed 
murderer maintained an obstinate silence as to his own name or the 
cause of his victim’s death, and nothing was known of him- or 
should be known, he had defiantly said. 

So he W’as gone! poor little Peter Quigg. Hannah’s eyes twinkled 
with most unusual tears, as she pictured to herself how he must 
have lain dying in a pool of blood on the floor of the old dark house 
she knew so well. And, but for having sheltered herself and the 
child, such a fate would never have happened to him! Yet human 
hearts are very quick to be consoled of others’ woes. Soon Hannah, 
wiping her eyes, remembered, with a relief strangely like gladness, 
that ‘ the devil was locked up;” so she phrased it. Henceforth she 
and the child might safely live with her dear mistress. Out of the 
darkness and blood of that terrible night they had passed into new 
days, bright with the golden light of rest and peace. 


JOY. 




CHAPTER Xlll. 

“ A brave old house ! a garden full of bees, 

Large, dropping poppies and queen hollyhocks, 

With butterflies for crowns— tree-peonies 
And pinks and goldilocks.”— Jean Ingelow, 

The Red House Farm, belonging to George Berrington now, as 
it had been owned by his father and forefathers before him since the 
days of good King Athelstan, was a fair home for any English yeo- 
man this spring evening. 

All the broad- breasted hills lay as if sleeping around. And still 
the sun had not yet gone to his rest, but was lighting up the wide 
valley, with its smiling landscape of fresh green fields and scattered, 
snug brown homesteads, except where the shadow of the hills fell. 

This was a rich, fertile land, through which the Chad slipped 
smoothly, brown and clear, having left its home of wild moors and 
heather stretches behind, away up on the hills, ll had dashed down 
in whiteness and roar into the sudden stillness of the dark glen of 
the ford, and then foamed and fretted among its rocks; and so, having 
shown itself to be a little river of spirit, as it some demon of the moor 
haunted its well-spring, it now only laughed in the happy sun, and 
vexed itself no more. It wound, in many an idle curve, through 
the Red Farm lands, of which its water-spirit seemed here the guard- 
ian angel. For the stream nourished tribes of darting trout for the 
sport and subsequent supper-table of generations of Berringtons. 
And it made fat their meadows, where their successive herds of red 
kine had grazed peacefully for hundreds of years. Likewise, it 
shallowed here and there witn rippling brightness into wider places 
that formed tiny sandy bays, where the soft-eyed red cattle came 
conveniently to drink. And here water-flags would flourish, bearing 
golden irises aloft. But as to flowers, there was a very largess and 
royal bounty of them along the Chad. Mercy on us! The glory of 
the marsh marigolds in its boggy places, and the yellow brilliance 
of its broad buttercup meadows this spring evening might verily 
make one’s eyes ache. The Field of the Cloth of Gold! Ay, that 
was most like it — but still, Art can never come near Nature in her 
width and spread of splendor. And so this evening, far and wide, 
the large, low acres of the Red House pastures were blowing in frag- 
ile, living, little gold stars. 

They say the cattle like little the acrid taste of the crowfoot; but 
still higher up the slopes was such abundance of sweet grass for 
them, that every green blade, in a different manner, became also 
changed into auriferous hue, that of butter. While the color of the 
brilliantly burnished galaxy of glory of the golden flowers fringing 
the river’s bed might seem as a happy omen to the Berrington house 
of men and women, who, if they had never waxed rich, yet had 
their seasons of prosperity, as the buttercups had theirs ; and, even 
on wintry days of apparent blight, still likewise kept their roots safe 
underground. 

On this special evening the Red House had caught in passing, as 


JOY. 43 

it seemed, all the sinking sun’s rays, which were reflected back from 
its glittering, diamond paned, leaded casements. 

It was a fine, substantial old farmhouse, backed by its outhouses, 
like a group of stout and loyal servants; and it faced to the front a 
pleasant strip of garden ground, full of pot herbs and sweet flowers. 
An orchard lay to one side, blossoming now in white and pink — 
clouds come down to earth awhile. On tiie other was a smooth 
lawn, fit to play bowls on, and bearing out Lord Bacon’s saying, in 
bis essay on a garden, tliat “ nothing is more pleasant to the eye 
than green grass, kept finely shorn.” 

The Red House itself was built firstly of moor-stone, in the foun- 
dations and upward, as high as a man’s waist. But then the walls, 
up to the roof, were of brick, mellowed by age, but still of an agree- 
able, warmly red hue. There was much fine woodwork in it, of in- 
tersecting beams, and hanging carved eaves, and thic-k oak window- 
mullions. Inside were deep window-seats, made to be sat upon in 
seclusion and comfort during several generations; also it had a wide, 
if short and shallow, staircase, protected by a truly noble balustrade 
of thick oak — the whole having been built in the days when wood 
and work and time were not stinted. 

The roof was of tiles just enough weather-stained not to be glar- 
ing. It showed as a spot of pleasant color for miles around, backed 
by the fresh green of its embosoming oak-trees, made picturesque 
by high chimneys ornamented with twisted patterns and brightened 
by gilt, giddy weather-vanes, a cock on one gable, an arrow on the 
other, that turned with the breeze in rivalry of each other and 
twinkled in the sunlight. 

The farm buildings were of far older date than the house, which 
latter had been rebuilt when one tormer Blyth Berrington had mar- 
ried an heiress of gentle blood and fair fortune, who loved the hand- 
some yeoman in spite of what her friends might say. The barns, 
linnhays, and so forth, seemed indeed almost a part of the very earth 
around, as a tree may be said to be that grows up therefrom, or as 
rocks imbedded in the soil. For their gray moor-stone walls had 
stood through so many ages of man that thick fringes of green ferns, 
spleenworts, hart’s-tongue, and polypody grew wherever they could 
find roothold, and the heavy thatched roofs were green with house- 
leek, and orange or rusty-brown with lichen. But all along under 
their eaves was painted a broad red line to match the house; as also 
the heavy old doors and shutters were fresh painted every spring, as 
now, of the same blood-red color. The Red House was Farmer Ber- 
rington’s pride, as well as his plaything and his home. He loved to 
keep it always bright with paint, fresh scoured, and smiling; and to 
dig the flower borders round its walls; to dress it, as he would his 
wife had she lived, and also because she had loved the house. 

So, on this fair evening the old Red House looked its best, and 
spring was in its glory. 

Farmer Berrington leaned on his gate, resting his arms on the 
broad topmost bar, the day’s labor being well done. A long file of 
liis red milch-cows came slowly up from the meadow, and as they 
passed him tlieir breath sweetened the air. Little Blyth, who was 
continually climbing the gate and then slipping down again for the 
pleasure of exercising himself, huzzaed at them, flourishing a long 


u 


JOY. 


■willow switch with which he had just helped to drive home the 
stately geese and their gosling broods from their pasture on the waste 
land where the roads crossed. But the mild-eyed cows hardly quick- 
ened their heavy gait, and only flicked their sleek sides with their 
tails as who should say, “ We know 3 mu.” 

“ Boy,” said his father, while slowly chewing a straw, and look- 
ing round with a smile, “ do you see our wagon coming back from 
Moortown? 1 wonder what Dick may be bringing now for ’ee.”‘ 
The caressing familiarity of the latter words at once signfied to Blyth 
that some pleasure was in the wind; some gift on the road. 

“ What!” he exclaimed, his rosy cheeks flushing and his blue eyes 
brightening, almost jumping in his joy off the gate on which he sat 
astride. ” Is there something for me in the wagon? Oh, what is it? 
Is it that new knite you promised me; or a kite, or — oh, do tell me, 
father, what it is?” 

” Softly, boy. There is something for you in the wagon; but 1 
never promised to say what. Patience is a virtue. Come — it might, 
be a new lesson -book. Whatever it is, 1 thought you would like it; 
so try to be pleased if even you would have liked something else a 
little better.” 

”1 will, dad, thank jmu,” said Blyth, trying to assume a bold, 
manly air, though the poor little fellow’s face had fallen at the idea 
of the lesson-book, and, child-like, he added audibly under his 
breath, “ but 1 do hope it’s something to play with.” 

The farmer’s face softened curiously as he looked sideways at his 
small son. “ It must be dull to be a tender young soul like that, and 
have no one to understand it rightly,” was vaguely in his mind. 

There were no neighbors’ farms near. He did not like Blyth ta 
mix in play much with any of the few poor cottagers’ children 
round. He himself felt too unable to rouse up under the heavy 
weight of his bodily nature (his innermost spirit being quiet and 
brooding also) so as to come out of himself and meet the child on 
equal ground, as some folk might. Of this incapacity he was sadly 
aware, feeling lacking as a parent, at times. It his young wife had 
lived, indeed, he would have seemed no worse (no, truly!) than many 
fathers; but — she had not! And Dick and the herd and the serving- 
maids were rough and uncouth; no better comrades, but worse, than 
himself. So he was sorry tor his boy, and therefore had in tiuth 
told Dick to bring back a kite. 

Blyth was not sony for himself. 

The wagon was creaking nearer and nearer along the road. He 
could see Bilberry and Whortleberry, two good farm-horses, brown 
and bay respectively, bearing proudly their heavy harness with its. 
brass-mounted trappings shining brightly in the evening sun. How 
they arched their necks, jingled their bells, and stepped out taster 
stableward,^ while the wheels rumbled nearer, and their big hoofs 
sounded with more resonant clang! And rfow they were close at 
hand. There was Dick’s weather-beaten visage, looking out from 
under the wagon-cover with its expression of aged simplicity just 
dashed with sly cunning. But what — who was this? 

A liltle girl, the prettiest child ever seen, was standing up in the 
wagon and peering out past Dick. 


JOY. 


45 


Gee-up. Whoa!” With a final creak and strain the big •wagon 
stopped betore the house-gate, Instead of turning into the tarmyard. 

Dick got down. The little girl stretched out both arms with a 
strange, short cry of joy. She had dark rings of solt hair, and great 
black eyes, and a siiiall red mouth that laughed; and she seemed 
hailing Blyth on the gate, and the Bed House behind, and the flow- 
ers, and trees, cows, pigs — all she saw. Blyth, with his yellow 
head bare, and his blue eyes wide, stared transfixed. 

” Well, master, I’ve brought back more than 1 was sent for,” be- 
gan Dick, shufiling his foot apologetically, as the farmer with some 
surprise came near. “ But there’s a woman inside there with the 
little maid. 1 found her at Moortown, and asking her way to Far- 
mer Berrington of the Red House. And her said, her was bound to 
come to you. So 1 gave them a lift, for the poor creature was nigh 
worn out with traveling.” 

” But who is she?” asked Berrington, in a low whisper, as a very 
ugly brown woman, though a deceiuly dressed one, got slowly down 
from the wagon, being stiff and cramped in her legs. But, as Dick 
could not answer, she, coming up, said, simply, 

” I’m Hannah, the child’s nurse.” 

“Hannah — the nurse,” repeated the farmer, doubtfully, as he 
looked her in the face with no better knowledge of what else she 
might be; 'then, with a ray of understanding lighting up the dark- 
ness of his mind, he said, “ O — hi” Next he pursed up his mouth 
into a silent whistle, looked at the child, and said, ” 1 see— But 
what brings you here? They don’t expect you.” 

(Dick, well trained to his master’s dislike of listeners or meddlers, 
had gone forward to the shafts; and with one ear vainly cocked 
stood bandying wmrds in a teasing way with the child, who was 
eagerly prattling, and begging to be lifted down.) 

“1 know; 1 know,” said Hannah, with anxious eagerness. 
“ Miss Rachel always wrote me it wasn’t safe. But now things are 
changed, with God’s blessing, who brought us on our journey here. ” 

Then she gave a rapid account of her late adventures, and the 
death of poorPeter; ending, 

” So I thought mother and child ought not to be parted any more, 
now there was no danger in bringing them together. And, know- 
ing that you have ’been to them both like a strong rock and a tower 
of defense, as we may say— for which the Lord reward you! — here 1 
came straight. What else could 1 do?” 

A parley ensued for some few minutes between the good farmer 
and his uninvited guest. 

“ You must rest tlie night here anyhow, tor ’tis too late to go up 
the glen,” said Berrington, at last. ‘‘ Be heartily welcome.” 

Then he went to the child. . “ Now, my pretty dear, let me lift 
vou down. Do you think you would like this for a home, eh?” 
lie spoke in his hospitality, without much meaning, thinking just 
to please her fancy with his loof-tree toi a night or two. But little 
eloy cried, “ Yes, yes,” and running up to Blyth, oft whom she had 
not taken her eyes, as he had as eagerly watched her, she held up 
her rosy lips to be kissed. Blyth bent down and his lips met hers; 
Hie elders looking on with the admiring air age shows toward inno- 
•ceuce. 


46 


JOY. 


“ Oh, lather,” cried Blylh now, catching his parent by the coat, 
with his face all alight, ” is this the present you promised me? Say, 
is it?” 

” How would you like her, Blytli?” 

” A little sister. Oh, 1 should like her better than anything— ex- 
cept, perhaps, my pony,” exclaimed Blyth, adding the last words 
■with native caution blending naturally with his enthusiasm. ” She 
is so pretty.” 

” Well — ” said the farmer; then, after a long pause, adding again, 
slowly, ” 'Well— who knows; it may be the boy speaks best. Yes, 
my lad; 1 hope she may be a little sister to you. And, now, come 
indoors to supper.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor. 

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door.” 

Goldsmith. 

” Yes; I’ve been put about over-much this by-last week, it’s true, 
Mr. Berrington. But still 1 hardly feel able to rest like, till I’ve seen 
my dear mistress,” said Hannah that night, relapsing into her north- 
ern dialect, as was usual with her when quite at ease. 

She was sitting opposite Farmer Berrington now, after supper. The 
big hreplace of the room, which was partly front-kitchen, partly 
dwelling-room, had a pleasant, if moderate, glow. Now his young 
wife was dead, the farmer mostly sat here; the two pleasant parlors 
too strongly reminded him she was absent. All round the great 
oaken dressers, full of crockeiy or shining copper vessels, and the 
heavy tables, were scoured as bright as a new pin. The red- tiled 
floor shone from soap and water, as freshly clean as the hard, red 
strand down at the Chad’s mouth after an ebb tide. 

Fine hams, beside big flitches of bacon, hung from the raftered 
ceiling on one side, noble Cheddar cheeses on the other. 

The whole place silently told of plenty, of peace and comfort. 
Hannah heaved a satisfied sigh, as lier gaze traveled, with house- 
keeping cognizance, around. Yet she repeated, forcing her mind 
from the temptation of dwelling on these delectable sights to the sub- 
ject that ought to be uppermost, 

‘‘ 1 ham been thinking that long to see her! Why, it’s four years 
since, and the poor creature will be just as glad to see me to-mor- 
row, 1 know! AY hy— what is it?” 

For Berrington, with an utterly stolid expression on his contented^ 
well-fed visage, only slowly compressed his lips, and wagged his 
head in dissent. Then, after taking a long whift at his pipe, he 
said, with kindly gravity, 

‘‘ I’m afraid it’s a black week up at the cottage. Best bide a bit, 
mayhap.” 

” How do you know? Have you seen her?” 

‘‘No; but I’ve heard her!” 

The signiflance of his meaning was fully grasped by the nurse, 
who looked at him blankly a moment, then let her hands tall heav- 
ily in her lap, Berrington softly pulled at the front of his coat by 
the button hole, to relieve himself from feeling awkward. This is 
a trick common enough in many of his class. 


JOY. 


47 

“ Dear— oh, dearl So her poor head is bad again. 1 did hope 
that would be righted when she’d got safe away from him. It was 
his wickedness sent it wrong before. Oh, my I But, do tell me 
now, is she really bad?” 

“ 1 fear so.” 

Berrinirton overlooked the feminine foolishness of asking twice 
what had been answered once. Nay, more, much as he loved taci- 
turnity, and most especially after supper, over his pipe, he unlocked 
his lips further, to add, 

“Cheer up. What’s quickly come is lightly gone mostly; and 
1 saw them both out walking on the moors a week ago. I’ll find 
means to let Miss Rachel know you’ve come; and maybe she’ll see 
you— even to-morrow. That’s a good woman; ay, a lady from her 
heart’s core to the nails of her fingers.” 

The farmer solemnly nodded his head to confirm his word, till his; 
vast double chin and his whiskers made meeting with the ample folds 
of his blue neckcloth. 

“Miss Rachel! Miss Rachel! It’s always Miss Rachel with 
men, and never Miss Magdalen; Peter Quigg was the same,” mut- 
ttered Hannah, half crossly. Then, feeding herself ungracious, 
added, “ But the Lord bless you for all your goodness to them both. 
It was he raised yon up to be a friend when they fled from the 
wickedness of the great world into the desert, so to speak. Why, 
you knew nothing of them before.” 

Berrington shook his head. 

“ Naught.” Then, puffing at his pipe, added, with a seriousness 
akin to sadness, “ But one day, when my wife was just buried, 1 
was standing, by her fresh grave, and looked up and saw' Miss 
Rachel. My heart was softened, wdiich she perceived. So when 
she asked after m}'- cottage, and 1 replied ’twas no fit dwelling for 
ladies, she maybe trusted me more than might otherwise have been. ” 

“ When they parted from me and the child, the}^ said they had 
heard of this in their youth as a wild place, but with kindly people,” 
hazarded Hannah, watching his face, curious to draw forth any fur- 
ther information. 

Berrington dryly smiled, which wrinkled his eyes quizzically at 
the corners. But he only said, 

“ I’m most sorry for women in this world. They’ve more to bear 
and less strength than us. Well, let’s hope ’tis made up to them m 
heaven. I’d ha’ endeavored to be a good husband longer to my 
wife, but she couldn’t stay with me, being ready for a better place, 
you see. So 1 try ’’—puff, puff — “ 1 try to make things easier to 
other women, as if ’twas done to her. That’s my rule in life. 
Good-night now; [ind to-morrow w^e’ll see about this.” 

Nurse Hannah slept deep and sound that night at the Red House 
farm, in a good feather bed, and between sheets that had been dried 
on a sw'eetbrier hedge, the faint scent of which gave her dreams of 
her youth long ago in the bonny, fresh, northern lowlands. And 
beside her lay little Joy, like a folded poppy- bud, in her rosy sleep; 
as Blyth lay in an adjoining room equally happy, in the same bliss- 
ful slumbers of their age. 

And both children dreamed of each other. 


48 


JOY. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ A I’heure oCi le soleil s'616ve, 

OH I’arbre seut monter la s6ve. 

La vall6e est comme un beau reve ; 

La brume 6carte son rideau : 

Partout la nature s’eveille, 

La fleur s’ouvre, rose et vermeille; 

La brise y suspend une abeille, 

La ros6e— une goutte d’eau.” — Victor Hugo. 

Two clays and a night after Hannah and the child had come to 
the Red House, Rachel Stone, as we may now call her, stole out of 
her cottage very early in the morning. 

She stopped and listened several times it any sound could be heard 
coming from the little brown house she had just left. Then, reas- 
sured, she at last went on with quicker, less careful, footfall by the 
river’s bank toward the Logan-stone. 

No human creature was in sight around. She was too early, hav- 
ing no clock in their poor abode; and though now used to regulate 
time by the sun, impatience had made her believe him already high 
this morning. 

It was not yefsix o’clock. She stood beside the huge rock, and, 
letting her hood tall backward, inhaled deep draughts of morning 
air, while the sweet-scented moorland breeze played about her dark 
tresses, cooling her weary brows. There was a charm of birds, as 
the saying is in that country, to be heard all around. Among the 
bushes and alders by the river, the little feathered musicians of the 
air w^ere still singing lustily with full throats, as if in welcome of 
the dawn. It was their hour, as yet, to enjoy possession of the earth, 
before “ Man goeth forth to his work and to his labor, until the 
evening.” 

How new, how doubly fair the wdiole earth seemed, still wet with 
its daily baptism of dew% thought Rachel. Then the sun rose fully 
over the hills before her, and all the valley broadened and bright- 
ened, fully waking to the day. O blessed orb, reviver of the earth, 
before wdiich even the black Terrors begotten of night in the human 
heart flee away! Who could not well-nigh forget all the wickedness 
of the world and also the troubles of the barely past dark hours, she 
thought? And so, while grateful for the sun and wind and nature’s 
consoling influences around her, Rachel’s heart swelled in praise to 
the Light Giver; to the God of earth and sea and air. 

With one hand resting on the side of the gray lichened monolith, 
her black dress falling in long, severe folds of drapery, her head 
upraised and her beautiful dark eyes turned to the sky, this woman 
might have been a priestess of Phoebus. But her words were less 
pagan in their devoutness, while her lips, murmuring, repeated, 

“ How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean, 

Are thy returns ! e’en as the flowers in spring. 

♦ * * ^5 Hf * !(! 

Grief melts away 
Like snow in IMay, 

As if there were no such cold thing.” 


JOY. 49 

Brave old George Herbert’s rejoicing after his affliction rejoiced 
her too. 

She looked, shading her eyes, across the meadows stretching to- 
ward the Red House. For, lo, the joy of a new interest she had 
wished for, the gladness of a little child’s lile to brighten the gray 
twilight of her own and her sister’s existences, had come. It was 
not even her own doing; of which she was thankful — dreading, poor 
soul, what Magdalen might do or say when restored to her senses. 

Rachel was a young woman still; and the past three years, of a 
life almost that of a recluse in this lonely valley, had been beav]^ and 
dark upon her. Nay, perhaps that first year had been a rest, when 
her soul was still crushed and sore with a great sorrow. Then the 
loneliness of the wide moors, the almost total absence of speech be- 
tween herself and Magdalen, had been best for both sisters, who 
suffered strangely from the same cruel wrong. But often during 
the past two years, there was, alas! no longer silence. 

There were sometimes hours made hideous by cries, by bitter re- 
proaches hurled against herself as a traitress, a wicked woman, in 
that past dreadful trial. And Rachel was always silent, out of her 
great love to that distracted, pretty creature. Poor Magdalen ! her 
weak head had never been able to control the violent impulses of a 
generous but passionate heart; less so now than ever. 

They were coming. Two figures were approaching over the young 
grass of the meadow, all speckled with daisies and buttercups. 

They threw long shadows behind them in the morning sun. 
Farmer Berrington was conducting Hannah to the accustomed tryst. 

Then Rachael went forward, stretching out both hands to Han- 
nah, her eyes shining like dark suns. 

“ Oh, Hannah,” slie said, “ 1 can never thank you enough for all 
you have done for us both, and the child, since we parted. You 
have been a good and faithful servant. May He who blessed such,.^ 
reward you!” 

Hannah, confused, and half ashamed at feeling her thick hands 
held in that delicate yet close clasp, made a short courtesy with her 
dumpy person, being old -fashioned" in her up-bringing. Then, find- 
ing her hands gently loosed, wiped her eyes for a second with the 
corner of her shawl, yet answered, rather doggedly, 

” Whatever 1 did was only'my duty. And 1 did it out of love to 
Miss Magdalen— asking pardon for calling her so still; but Fve been 
used to it ever since I first went to 3 mur dear mother as nursemaid,, 
and she but a slip of a child.” 

“ Of course; the old name comes naturally,” said Rachel, gently, 
never showing by any change in her sweet voice that she noticed the 
slight ungraciousness which implied nought hacLbeen done for love 
of herself. And yet, though so morally strong, she was a most sen- 
sitive woman; and her soul, that had already in life sounded the 
deepest diapason of agony, could even still answer with a light, inner 
note of pain to so slight a jar as this. 

Then she rapidly asked: 

“But, Hannah, tell me! How— why was it you came with the 
child? Why did you leave Mr. Quigg? 1 hope there is no bad 
news?” 

As slowly, Hannah made dubious answer: 


50 


JOY. 


“Bad news! Well, no— not to say bad. Providence’s ways is 
mysterious; and it’s an ill wind blows nobody luck. So, any way, 
it was all made sate tor us ones— an' I com’.’’ 

Berrington here interposed. He bad been keeping aloof, from 
delicacy, till now; but, either hearing or guessing what was com- 
ing, made shift to say his say first. 

“ Your pardon, Miss Rachel, but 1 must be going to my laborers 
now. Mistress Hannah will dnd her way back, surely. And seeing 
one can speak you so seldom (ay, verd^ — about once in six months), 
1 will make bold to put before you a thought that came to my mind 
yesterday, or maybe earlier, hoping it may not be disagreeable.’’ 

“ Pray go on, Mr. Berrington,’’ said Rachel, in an involuntarily 
altered voice, as if speaking from a distance, across the desert of 
loneliness with which she felt surrounded. As mechanically, she 
rapidly pulled her hood over her head, which, in the excitement of 
meeting Hannah, she had left fallen backward. 

“ wiry, here it is. Seeing the little maid and her nurse here have 
come to bide among us, 1 would be mortally glad to have them stay 
at the Red House Farm. Children is best company lor children, 
and my boy Blyth would be sorry already to part witli the little girl. 
It is but a rough home, perhaps, for her, with no mistress now to 
order things as a gentlewoman likes them; for delicacy keeps plenty 
in its place. But still it might be betler for an infant than being up 
here at the cottage — at times/’ His voice had fallen quite low at the 
last words, and he looked steadily toward a pair ot hoodie crows fly- 
ing across the sky. 

Rachel was quite affected by the truly chivalrous thoughtfulness 
underlying the farmei’s stolid manner. 

“Y’ou aie very good; 1 haidly know what to say,” she mur- 
mured. “It is not for me to decide, but still 1 believe, I feel, you 
/ire right.” 

“ Very well, ma’am. No need to answer in a hurry. Let them 
stay now till it can be decided; then, if ’tis yes, why, vve must all 
try a bit, with good-will, to see how the plan works.” Whereupon 
Berrington turned sideways, preparatory to departure; adding in a 
careless, lower key, “ And as to board or lodging for such a little 
one, and her so pretty, too, it need never be mentioned betw^een 
us.” 

“ No, no, no! Mr. Berrington!” exclaimed Rachel. “You are 
too generous; and you do not understand. We are not poor, indeed; 
we are almost rich.” 

But, even as she spoke, the farmer was gone, lifting his hat re- 
spectfully, but with a deprecatory wave ot his big stick. 

“ Well, well, we shall find means to settle all that, if Magdalen 
wishes it so. It toould make all easy; heaven opens doors out ot 
difficulties,” Rachel murmured; then added, with an explanatory 
smile to Hannah, though her lips trembled’ “ W'e must be quick 
now. You have so much to say that 1 long to hear. But 1 dare not 
leave her long. She was sleeping quietly at last when 1 left, poor 
soul. We had a terrible night together.” 

Hannah gravely nodded; no more; but felt touched in her heart, 
too, tiioughshe-ro^xs jealous of Miss Rachel at times for her own dear 
lady’s sake. She did not tell how Farmer Berrington had brought 


JOY. 


51 

her to within a few yards of the little brown cottage in the night 
past, nor how, while the lantern shone, sending forth faint rays to 
where they stood, and the night breeze came down sweet and fresh 
from the moors, they had heard through the mud walls the moans 
and cries of a spirit as if under temporary demoniac possession. 
Poor Magdalen, and also poor Rachel! They had heard the latter’s 
voice, too, though that storm of passions, stead\’^ in prayer, as one 
could guess without hearing the words, wrestling in spirit, as if she 
could herself cast forth by faith the tormenting demon. 

But Hannah said nought. The sisters had made their home in the 
desolate glen not to be spied upon. 

The two now sat down, side by side, on the rocks that were the 
base of the Logan-stone, and began to talk eagerly. 

“ How was it safe for you to come, Hannah?” 

” Because the devil deserted his own for once, maybe to drive a 
harder bargain next time. He's irot penal servitude for some years,” 
said Hannah, with jubilant vindictiveness. 

“He! Who?” 

“ Why, that Gaspard da Silva. Who else?” 

Even as she spoke, Hannah remembered— then, though so lately 
touched with pit}’-, could not resist the feminine curiosity of looking 
in 31iss Raciiel’s face, just to see “ how she took it.” 

Rachel Estonia felt numbed for a moment, then conscious of a 
sharp, great pain al the news. But, knowing that curious gaze was 
upon her, she bore herself bravely, and would not flinch. The nurse 
did not guess from her noble face how great the relief W'ould have 
been to scream aloud, to cover her face, and mourn in sackcloth and 
ashes that the proud were so degraded. The dawn seemed black, 
and her heart nigh bursting with bitter pain. Then, the first an- 
guish past, the after sadness was almost as terrible — the horror and 
penitence of feeling herself well-nigh a wicked woman tor that very 
pain; seeing, on the bare sands of her memory, the ribs of the wreck 
of her once fair ship of hopes. Oh, she had hoped, prayed, that re- 
membrance might be covered evermore henceforth from her own 
inner sight by "waters of oblivion. Dear Lord! she had so striven 
not to sin thus in thought, though stainless in word or by deed. 

“ Go on,” she said only. “ Tell me all about it.” 

So Hannah told her all. 

When the latter ended with poor Peter Quigg's death — at which 
she had not hinted before— Rachel started, cried out, and then was 
at no pains to hide her emotion. Why should she? He had loved 
her devotedly, ever since he had met her, while traveling, now 
several years ago. Those were her happy days. And she had re- 
fused him; but, both being noble souls, she had "known how to 
convert a lover to a friend. 

So he was dead — poor Peter! For a few minutes, with bowed head, 
her lace hidden under her hood, Rachel felt almost as if she herself 
was his murderess. It was she who had asked him to shelter her 
sister’s child and its nurse at a time of great sorrow and peril to them 
all. And he, always loyal, had never hesitated, but risked the dis- 
turbance of his recluse-like habits, of responsibilities, even dangers, 
such as had at last too truly come; all this to shield the child of the 
man whom he had most cause to hate, or at least think of with an- 


52 


JOY. 


£^er aud envy. And Gcispavd da Silva had shot him ! Rachel felt no 
dovibt which bur.i^lar did the deed, m her own sad heart. It numbed 
her faculties to think of it. The thought was indeed so dreadful, 
that, like some women who have suffered great mental trials, and 
thus invisibly shielded themselves from succumbing in mind or 
body, she took refuge in a present dullness of feeling, thinking to 
herself she would have time enough for mourning in the days to 
come. Yes, this year, then next year, and the year after; and, 
maybe, a succession of years, all long and silent, passed among these 
quiet moors, 

“And for many years— how long will he be in prison?” she 
asked, feeling choked. 

“ That 1 don’t know foi certain. The trial was not on yet, the 
paper I saw only said he was sure to get five years, or ten. And I 
came here then. ” 

“ incertitude again. But still, this lime it may be best,” sighed 
Rachel to herself. Then aloud, “ Perhaps Berrington might be^ble 
to learn, though we seem at the world’s end here. But, Hannah, 
how can 1 ever tell my sister? My heart bleeds for her. Even when, 
she is recovered, it might unsettle her reason again— perhaps for 
life.” 

Hannah looked aghast at the dreadful possibility, which had never 
struck her before. Rachel’s heart sunk too, lower than even before. 

“ No, it won’t make me mad. It has restored me to my reason, 
quite on the contrary, as you may see,” said Magdalen’s voice, close 
beside them. 

Both started in horror, and she appeared from behind the Logan- 
stone, disordered in dress, certainly, having huddled merely a skirt 
and shawl over her night garments. But her blue e 5 'es were steady 
enough; her face, no longer flushed, was indeed very pale but foV 
two slight hectic spots. They gazed transfixed. 

“ Yes,” she went on, “ my wrongs are avenged. Gaspard is in 
prison. Now he will learn what stone walls are like, the living 
death to which he condemned his wife., It is righteous — it is just. 
The moment the words left your lips, Hannah, 1 felt electrified 
into my full senses again.” 

She placed one hand lightly on her head as she spoke, and stood 
so a minute; then extended it to Hannah, who, faithful creature, 
covered it with kisses and tears. 

“Poor Haimah! How fond you always w^ere of me ! Come, 1 
will kiss you myself, for you. have been very good.” 

Thereupon she touched her old maid’s cheek with her lips as grace- 
fully and lightly as she did everything. 

“ Oh, my dearie, my dearie! But now did you come to hear all? 
And, Lord help us, with 3 mur feet bare, tool” uttered Hannah, gaz- 
ing down on the dew-wet greensward with horror, w^hile Rachel, too 
perceived the fact for the first time. 

“ It cools my brain,” said Magdalen, carelessly looking down at 
the pretty feet that peeped bare from under her skirts. “What 
brought me here, you dear, foolish old Hannah? ’Why, 1 saw Miss 
Rachel there getting up early very cautiously, so 1 was cunning 
enough to pretend being asleep, and then crept out here after her. 
1 ve been crouched behind that old stone till I’m cramped; and you 


JOY. 53 

would both murmur so low sometimes, I quite longed to call out to 
you to speak louder. ISlo matter— 1 heard enough.” 

“ Well, now you will come home, dear. You must have your 
feet dried, and get some warmer clothing; besides, you have hardly 
eaten anything the last two days,” urged Rachel, concealing her 
anxiety under tenderness of voice. 

” Oh, yes; would Hannah like to come and see the mud hovel we 
call home, eh?” 

” Shall I come a while later to-day and bring the child? You’ll 
be thinking sore long to see jmur own child, my dearie.” 

A sort of shiulder ran through Magdalen’s body. 

“The child! To-day! Oh! 1 cannot. Tell her it would not be 
good tor me, Rachel. You know my poor head might not be able 
to stand it. Another time — perhaps in a week, Hannah.” 

“ Say the day after to-morrow. She and Berrington will think 
you so unnatural,” wnispered Rachel 

“ Very well,” acceded Magdalen, not too willingly. “ Then the 
day after to morrow, Hannah. Good-by now,” and she waved her 
hand in farewell. 

Hannah watched both the sisters as they went aw’ay, Rachel’s tall, 
dark figure supporting Magdalen, who winced and clung to her arm, 
crying out sharply if a thorn touched her feet. 

After a few steps Rachel stopped, and, hastily pi tiling off her owm 
shoes, put' them on her sister. The nurse felt a tightness across her 
chest, as she too turned to go. A curious disappointment, too, she 
was aware of, but could hardl}^ account for. 

“ Poor dear, it was that her mind had been so unhinged. 'When 
1 bring her the child it will all be right; all be like old times again,” 
she thought. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

*' Sorrows succeed. 

When one Ls past, another cai’e we have : 

Thus woe succeeds a woe as wave a wave.” 

Herrick. 

But when, two days later, Hannah, who had been carrying little 
doy for the last quarter of a mile, set her down on the dried mud 
door of Cold-home Cottage, all was not yet right. 

The little one was frightened at the strange place, so bare and un- 
inviting, and hung back as they entered. She was scared, too, by 
the black dresses and hoods of the sisters, and, being still unused to 
strangers, turned and hid her head obstinately in Hannah’s apron. 
3Iagdalen looked at her curiously and critically, as the nurse made 
edprts to disengage the tight baby grasp. 

“ Is she always like that?” she asked. 

Then Rachel went near, and, going down on her knees, managed, 
by pretty, coaxing wmrds and loving enticements, to draw the black 
curly head lound to s])y at her. Presently Joy, as was her custom 
when pleased, promptly kissed Rachel full and unasked with her 
rosy lips. At that Magdalen sprung forward with a jealous excla- 
mation, caught up the child, and half angrily covered her with hasty, 


JOY. 


54 

almost harsh, kisses. Joy cried out in alarm, as was natural ; IMag- 
dalen was enraged. There was some ado to pacify them both. 

“ Jt is so long since she saw you. How could she remember?”’ 
pleaded Rachel. 

“ Don’t you know who the lady is, my birdie?” murmured 
Hannah, caressingly, soothing her charge. ‘‘ Why, she is your 
own — ” 

” Hush!” screamed Magdalen. ” 1 forbid you to tell her.” 

‘ ‘ 1 beg pardon ; 1—1 thought you meant to tell her to-day, surely, ’ ' 
stuttered Hannah, frightened. ” I’ve told^ her nothing, even as w^e 
came along. 1 thought it not right till she’d seen 3 'Qu; but 
now—’' 

‘‘No, I will not have it. You think he is sate, but 1 know him; 
stone walls will never hold him. Then it will all begin again, and 
we must separate and fly; so it is better she should know nothing. 
Besides, she must live at the Red House — 1 wish it so; when she 
grows older, she would only be asking inconvenient questions if she 
knew who we were.” 

Hannah would have demurred, amazed, but that Rachel sorrow- 
fully signed to her it was so to be. Then the child was bidden play 
in the cottage kitchen, while all three women watched her. 

It was a strange dwelling for two ladies of gentle breeding: so 
Hannah thought silently in her mind, wondering. It was almost 
ulterly bare, but how spotless! The earthen floor was so clean one 
might have dined on it; the solitary deal table and dresser were 
scoured white as milk; the few tin utensils shone like silver. These 
were signs of Rachel’s daily toil. The only touches of color and 
softness were some feather cushions, covered with bright stufi, piled 
on the wooden settle by the fireplace, where Magdalen generally 
stretched herself. Also a heavy rug was placed here, to keep her 
feet warm, made of bits of cloth coarsely knitted together with cord; 
such rugs are sometimes seen in peasant cottages. Rachel’s delicate 
fingers had worked that. Also the two straw chairs, made much 
after the shape and manner of a beehive, were disguised likewise 
under bright coverings. Magdalen’s guitar on the settle; her foot- 
stool — that was all! Not another sign of taste, of educated mind, of 
ease (for though Rachel had a few books — Milton, Shakespeare, 
Dante, and Goethe — they were carefully hidden away in a little 
locked box, kept under her pallet-bed in the next room). Other poor 
cottages on the moors had surely more articles for use, or even pleas- 
ure. Here were no tall wooden clock, no flowers in the window, no 
purring cat, or cheerful fowls cackling on the threshold; nothing. 
Hannah’s grieved mind thought the room like a cell presently, in 
spite of the cushions, the guitar, and the nosegays of wild flowers 
that poor Rachel had placed here and there. . Then a thought struck 
her. It teas a cell; here was nothing to be broken! She had, indeed, 
understood the matter. Once, when they first came, Rachel had 
tried the softening influences of a few pretty objects on w^hich to 
rest the eye; procuring what she could at Moortown, through Farmer 
Berrington. Then one dreadful night came, and by morning all was 
shivered, smashed, rent in a thousand fragments; and worse, a caged 
linnet dying. Again she had tried the experiment with like disas- 


JOY. 55 

troiis results, then gave it up. After all, nature was beautiful and 
bright enough out of doors, except in the terrible winter. 

For a minute or two little Joy slowly and conscientiously walked 
round, examining the big fireplace with its ingle nook, the little 
window in which hung the old lantern. There was nothing to play 
with. 

“ This is an ugly house; Joy doesn’t like it as much as house,” 
she innocently said. 

‘‘There; you see!” said her mother, significantly. “Juanita, 
come heie — speak to me; why did you call yourself Joy? You are 
Juanita.” 

“ No, no. Joy !” persisted the child, laughing, and shaking her 
soft, curly, dark head, 

“ What, does she not even know her own name? Not that I gave 
it her — the nuns who visited the asylum baptized her when they 
thought 1 was dying.” 

“ It was such an outlandish name,” apologized Hannah, looking 
hot. For she was such a stickler for all that was British, she hated 
the idea of returning to the foreign “ Juanita ” she had so cleverly 
evaded. “ She always had a trick of calling herself something like 
Joy as a baby, so 1 just let it rest so.” 

“ May not we too, Magdalen? Our Joy — it is a pretty idea,” said 
Rachel. Her sister smiled assentingly. When at the same time the 
child unluckily exclaimed, “ Yes, yes; I’m Joy — Joy likes you!” 
and prettily running forward and looking up for sympathy in 
Rachel’s face, she leaned— drawn by some secret sympathy — against 
her knee. 

“ Take her away. She is her father’s own daughter; she likes you 
5^52! passionately exclaimed Magdalen. “Yes, 1 could see it in 
her face the moment she came in; and she has his eyes. She is an 
unnatural little wretch. Oh, my child, my child, 3^011 don’t care for 
me either.” She rushed into the next room, weeping; it was their 
bedroom, the onlj other room. Rachel followed her there, in spite 
of denials, strong in her love. Presently the complaints inside were 
pacified by degrees, but when Rachel came out it was to say, softly 
but briefly, the two visitors must go. Nevertheless, she herself hug- 
ged the child in a long, warm embrace, and then squeezed Hannah’s 
hand. 

So nurse and child went slowly back through the wet meadow^s, 
for it was a rainy spring afternoon. 

It had been a disastrous day. 

Yet, besides the overt disappointment, the nurse felt again that of 
the previous meeting now intensified. What was this doubt at her 
heart? She did not find her mistress as perfect .as she had believed 
her these last three years. She did not love her auear as much as she 
had done in absence. Then the faithful woman blamed herself bit- 
terly ; poor Hannah I 


56 


JOY. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ Sweet country life, to such unknown, 

Whose lives are others, not their own ! 

♦ sH ♦ * * 

O happy life ! if that their good 
The husbandmen but understood! 

Who all the day themselves doe please. 

And yx?uuglings with such sports as these. 

And, lying down, have nought to affrigjit 
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.” 

Herrick. 

So, as was now agreed, Joy and her nurse lived at the Red House. 

There could hardly have been a happier home for any child lhaa 
this farm, lying warm and sheltered toward the south in its rich 
pasture-lands, with behind it the hills and the sweet heather for 
leagues and leagues. In-doors there reigned peace, plenty, and 
smiling faces. Out-doors were wide horizons, the large air to bring 
roses on the cheeks, and perfect liberty. 

One small matter had given Hannah some trouble: this was the 
child’s name when the farm-folk began to ask natural questions. 
Magdalen hotly refused to let her bear her father’s name or even the 
grand-maternal one of Mendoza. It was dangerous, she darkly said, 
haunted by the tear of Da 8ilva appearing some day on their track. 
Stone again, denoted too clearly the child’s connection -with the 
cottage — at which wondering tongues would have wagged. “ And 
to call her only Joy is to miscall the child. Farmer Berrington. 
Why even the very cows here have Christian names,” she said, al- 
most in tears. 

C-eorge Berrington ’s phlegm was moved to consideration. 

“ ’Tis true enough, folks ask questions: and, it they get no an- 
swer, at times they’ll talk the more,” he mused. 

He considered the matter over three pipes that evening in the 
porch, and finally thus announced his mind thereupon: 

“ Some name the little maid should have that will attract small 
attention; for it’s better to be little known than ill-spoken of, as the 
saying is. Now— if no better can be found —I’m thinking my dead 
wife would be heartily glad to lend the child what help would lie 
in hers. Haythorn it was, and I know of no cousins or kin of hers ; 
so that, if neighbors suppose the infant to bo somehow related to 
her, none can dispute it. Furthermore, it’s a good name. May she 
wear it as it destrves, for it will never disgrace her.” 

This offer (not made without a sense of generous effort) was re- 
ceived with true gratitude by Rachel, and graciously condescended 
to by Magdalen. 

“ Of course it need be only for a time— while we stay here,” the 
latter said. 

As for Hannah, the relief of this arrangement was great. Her 
own thick-headedness in making evasive answers as to the child’s 
parentage no longer puzzled her. She had only to say, “ Her name! 
Why, the same as the dead Mrs. Berrington. Ask the farmer, he 


JOY. 


57 

can tell you best.” Which last suggestion few of the farm- folk car- 
ried out, as can be guessed. Berrington had said so little about his 
young wife or her people that the parentage of a scapegrace Haj'- 
thorn was easily invented by the people around and fathered on lit- 
tle Joy, and so the wonder was presently forgotten. 

Blyth and the little maid became fast friends. How they played 
together that spring —ay, and many more — in the orchard, where 
the sleek, black pigs fed below, and the rosy-white clouds of blos- 
som bloomed above — a strange contrast you shall see any day in that 
country. 

Then Blyth taught Joy the delights of birds’ -nesting. What un- 
speakable happiness she felt on finding first a thrush’s nest, all by 
herself ! It was on the banks of the Chad, where she was wander- 
ing while Blyth sailed sticks, which he called ships, down the 
stream, Joy perceived something blue a little way below her feet, 
and there it was just above the water’s fl,ow, built so that the over- 
hanging edge of the turf slightly sheltered it. Joy fell on her knees, 
and fairly screamed in her ecstasy, which brought Bljdh, running. 
He admired it too; although giving his opinion that it vjas a foolish 
spot to choose, and they must b^e a young couple of birds that 
built it. 

This did not prevent Joy from dreaming all night of her mud- 
lined treasure, with its four azure-speckled beauties of eggs, as the 
loveliest ever seen. Alas! - when, next morning, she hurried to the 
beloved spot, the nest was gone. 

There had been a freshet in the night and a brown, turbid flood 
now rushed along. Ailing the river-bed to its brink. Blyfh was 
right. But he did not triumph over her. He only said, “1 thought 
Oiiad came down last night; I heard the cry of the river as 1 lay 
awake. ’ ' 

And next came the first time in her life that Joy heard a strange 
call of ” Cuck-oo, Cuck-oo!” and stood turning her head in puz- 
zled amazement toward the oaR-copse on either side. Blyth at once 
made her lift her small left foot, and showed how to search its im- 
print on the ground carefully for a hair. This, the boy explained, 
would be in its color the same as that of her future husband. He 
found a small hair triumphantly after diligent search and mutual 
poking of their Angers. It was of a dusky red, much like that of 
any of the calves, Joy thought (they were in the paddock behind the 
cowhouse), but Blyth announced it was just the same as his own 
yellow locks, so the little maid, with beautiful faith piously believed 
him. 

Year after year, they two sought new birds’ nests, heard returning 
mysterious cuckoos, and were happy. If once Joy, grown older and 
less trustful, found a white hair under her foot, and again none, 
which somewhat shook her belief in Blyth’s mutual magic, still he 
unfailingly produced a jetty one that by no conceivable chance could 
belong to any one but herself. Farmer Berrinirton was once shown 
this wonder, and asked with mysleriousness, where did he think it 
had come from, to which he answered, not knowing, ” Why! off a 
black pig, L say.” 

When told with eager horror of his mistake, how he had roared 


JOY. 


58 

with silent laughter, till his face grew purple, and his capacious 
sides ached. 

Yes; the long j^ears after years that Rachel, up at the cottage, had 
SOUK! what sadly foreseen for herself and her companion, strange, 
silent sisters both, passed over merrily for little Joy and the bigger 
Llyth. Winter snows were piled on summers’ graves; these were 
in turn thawed by the lusty warmth and quickening influences of 
new young years. Meanwhile both children grew bigger and 
stronger; rosy, it tanned by the warm suns and moorland breezes; 
healthy and hardy, though somewhat Avild, according to prim no- 
tions of up-bringing. 

Blyth had been given his pony the winter after Joy came, and 
daily rode to Moortown grammar-school, the few hours of separa- 
tion only making both of them more happy to see each other again. 
For, though the boy was glad to have comrades now of his own 
age and kind, he never flinched in affection to his little pet plaj"- 
thing. She would wait for him down the lane every afternoon, tilt 
he came in sight. Then lie would lift her on his pony and walk by 
her side to^he farm-gale, where Farmer Berrington often chanced 
to be also silently waiting. It was a pretty sight. 

Hannah, for her part, felt as if she had at last come to a land of 
Goshen; and was happy among the strangers, and only hoped to 
live on there in peace now — peace was always her inner cry— and to 
wander no more. By degrees she had taken up the duties of house- 
keeper at the Red House, being the most capable and exi^erienced 
woman therein; and her soul at last was thoroughly content. 

“But I’ll not meddle with the butter; for it’s clean against the 
principles in which I was brought up as a young girl to use a tub 
for a churn and turn my hand to be a churn-stick,” she had said. 
She had loved putting the fresh milk into a vast churn and hearing 
the dash of the dipper, wdiile afterward there was no drink like fresh 
buttermilk or evening meal like supping so wens, to her mind. Still, 
with all her prejudices, Hannah could not resist overseeing the big 
pans of Devonshire cream mantling and WTinkliug as the}'' w’ere 
scalded on the hot hearth, or having a sharp eye on the pounds of 
golden butter sent to Moortown market. Also she loved the big 
dishes of junket rarely, and soon learned to make them as to the 
manner born. Then no one could turn out a more excellent Aveekly 
batch of loaves, or had a lighter hand with the pastry of the big 
pies, or knew so many kinds of hot cakes, the secret art of which 
she had learned m the laud of her birth. Thus, what with spring 
and autumn great house-cleanings and weekly scrubbings and scour- 
ings, preserving, pickling, mending napery, seeing to all the wash- 
ing and the poultry of all kinds, and calves, and sighing over 
Blyth ’s torn jacket and Joy’s new frocks, tatters of which adorned 
.all the bushes witlrin miles, besides knitting for all the household, 
Hannah verily had her hands full. Her northern energy astonished 
the easy-going, rathey lazy, gentle people around her. 

Little Joy, however, was the life and light of the Red House. She 
had fairly nestled herself into the innermost core of Herrington’s big 
heart. Though he grew more taciturn, as he also became broader 
and redder, every year, yet he seldom failed to have a full-moon 


JOY. 


59 


smn6 to greet her; and would always unlock his lips to say slowly, 
“ Well, my little sunbeam.” Joy was alike his plague and darling. 

By and by Joy too trotted down the lane with her satchel to a 
dame’s school, and the quiet that ensued in the tarmhouse for two 
hours was “ amazin’,” said Beriington. He quite missed her foot- 
step following him round the fields and farmyard in the mornings; 
but the sisters up in the glen had willed it so. 

At first. Miss Bachcl had hoped they might themselves have taught 
the child, but the experiment failed m three days. Magdalen fright- 
ened little Joy by her impatience and occasional outbreaks of anger 
during the lessons, as well as bj^ her equally capricious fils of pas- 
sionate affection. Her light, bright nature, that had itself flashes of 
wayward genius, could not endure the slow unfolding of the young, 
immature brain. Then, if for once the child sat on the floor, with 
her feet stretched before her (almost unnaturally quiet, Rachel 
thought, for she was generally like the trickiest spirit of mirth and 
mischief imaginable), Magdalen would break into a tiff at finding 
she was, after all, only watching a black beetle crawling, or si tidy- 
ing with interested big eyes the antics of the queer-looking crickets 
that came out on the hearth. 

On this Joy would rush passionately to Rachel’s knee for protec- 
tion, who was always so sweet, so tender; the child herself being as 
violent m Jier emotions as her mother, but with, already, the prom- 
ise of a tar deeper feeling, and stronger understanding. The scenes 
of jealousy that ensued were painful and hurtful. From the last one 
the child escaped unnoticed for the moment, and, young as she was, 
ran back toward the farm as fast as her small legs could carry her, 
meeting Hannah half-way, who had come to fetch her, and was 
scandalized. 

Then Rachel sorrowfully saw that the young spirit would only 
look on them as its task- mistresses and tormentors, or else bring dis- 
union between herself and the poor suffering sister she loved as her 
own life. So it ceased. 

At times there would be a little feast spread on the bare cottage 
table, of bilberries, with tea, or perhaps some delicacy of short- eake 
smuggled by Hannah for that purpose into the basket left on cer- 
tain days at the Logan-stone. Then Joj’^ would come with her nurse, 
learning by the latter’s admonitions as she grew yearly older to dis- 
seiiible her affection lor “Miss Rachel ” and pretend more toward 
“ Miss Magdalen;” and at such times Magdalen, beingpleased, could 
take a rare winning manner, so seductive, so strangely fascinating 
(though capricious), that she did really charm the'child for brief 
happy spaces. Then Hannah’s love for the mistress, who was al- 
ways young to her, returned in full admiring flow; and Rachel, 
whose love never wavered through good or evil times, smiled, glad 
to see the black cloud lifted from the being dearest to her. 

But still often little Joy tired. The brown cottage wms so still, 
the hooded sisters so weird; her young mind quickly pined lor 
Bl3dh, who was never allowed to come thither, and for the many 
delights of the Red House. 

Ah, no one knew, and Joy least, how those short visits were a» 
sunbursts in the chill life of the tall, dark woman at Cold-home. 
No one guessed, when at rare times she met the child alone— by 


JOY. 


60 

mere accident, it seemed —and would hu^ her to her heart witlf wet, 
deep eyes, that she had been waylaying its path in fear of offending 
her other beloved one up yonder in the glen. 

And how' often— how often, when the opportunity came, the poor 
hungry soul was disappointed, and had to go back to the terrible 
stillness of the glen, and to the mean little brown cottage, disap- 
pointed, and furtively wiping away the tears that fell thick and fast 
under her hood. 

“Oh, Joy— little Juanita, if 1 had been your mother nothing 
should have parted us, my child, my child!” she thought. After all, 
however strong, she was only a woman, with woman's longings, 
and capacities, and little heartaches. Then Eachel would cross her 
threshold wearily as the shades of night fell, and light the old lan- 
tern. Its rays shone in the darkness over the ford where so few 
travelers came. The lone light seemed like an emblem of her life 
— wasted. 


CHAPTER XVlll. 

*• Call me no more, 

A.S heretofore, 

The musick of a Feast ; 

Since now, alas. 

The mirth that was 

In me, is dead or ceast. 

“ But Time, Ai me, 

Has laid, I see. 

My Organ fast asleep ; 

And turned my voice 
Into the noise 

Of those that sit and weep.” 

Herrick. 

On Saturday half-holidays, Avhich were among their happiest 
days, Blyth used to take Joy long, rambling excursions over the 
moors, or up the hills to exploie the rocky fastness of some tor. 

One day when Joy was about nine years old, and Blyth some four 
years more, they amused themselves by tracking the Chad down 
from its spring three miles away, up among the dwarfed mountain 
ashes, and the heather and rocks. And thus, following the stream, 
they had presently found themselves where the waterfall leaped down 
white into the green darkness of the nairow glen, here almost a 
chasm or rift, where hardly a ray»of sun ever found its way. In 
general, both boy and girl avoided the neighborhood of the cottage 
by mute consent; tor laughter and play died away as if banned at 
sight ot the lone brown cottage and the dark-hooded women. But 
this day they had vowed to follow the river all the way down its 
bed, without flinching from obstacles, till they reached the Red 
House Farm. To their childish imaginations, to draw back now 
would have implied loss of honor; so, promising themselves to steal 
past Cold-home with hushed footfall and bated breath, they plunged 
with daring recklessness down the sleep cliff-side, wiiere the noise 
of falling W’ater roared in their ears, and the green, gloomy shade of 
the trees that filled the chasm grew darker and denser, wiiile their 
foothold became more difficult every minute; but safety lay seventy 
feet below them, for they could not climb up again! 


JOY. 61 

It was a very difficult descent— so difficult that none but them- 
selves, or the badgers, leaving their holes to teed at night and re- 
turning at dawn, and perhaps an occasional fox, ever had tried it. 

The sides of the glen were indeed as dangerous all the way, to its 
mouth. Therefore, as none of the superstitious country-folk or 
moor-men cared to pass tlie lone cottage of the wisht* sisters, as 
they now called Rachel and Magdalen (fearing the evil eye or some 
unknown hann), the glen was as much the undisturbed retreat of 
the latter as if it were a little park in their own demesne. 

“Oh! Blyth, help me. 1 canH get down!” cried Joy, in dismay, 
hanging by one arm to a slender oak-tree, whose roots seemed riven 
in a^ mass of rock that hung for a few feet sheer below her, while 
on either side was only a fearful tangle of brushwood, bramble, and 
no foothold to speak of. 

“ I’m coming,’’ gasped Blyth, rather breathless himself. 

But before he could come, Joy had loosed her hold, and somehow 
dropped on a ledge a little below, being as lithe as a wildcat. 

“ V^hy, there you aiel” grumbled the boy. “ First you say you 
can’t do it, and then you go and do it. That’s just like a woman.” 

What did he know of women? That was spoken like an embryo 
man. Joy, who was breathless too, shook back her dark curls, her 
cheeks being flushed like a damask rose, and held out her small 
brown hands, that were cruelly rasped by the oak bark, before his 
face. 

“ But I’m frightened now, Blyth. Help me; I’m so tired, too.” 

“ Why, it’s as easy as easy, now” jeered Blyth, jumping down 
lesser big bowlders and holding up his arms to help the little girl, 
who slid after him. “ But that’s you always, Joy. When there is 
any real danger, you’re a dare devil; Dick said so only yesterday. 
Wh 3 % my heart was jumping up and down inside me when you 
were hanging over that big rock; you might have broken your 
neck. And now here at these little hop-o’-my-thumb places, you 
ask for help.” 

Joy only looked at the gruff young Saxon, with laughing, sweet, 
black eyes. She was as tearless and self-reliant as any wood-nymph, 
following this mad sylvan adventure with a faun; but as caressing 
and full of wiles, too, as the earthliest of little Delilahs. In this 
lay her charm. So she only clasped Blyth’s hand tighter in silence, 
until, hot, exhausted, and with large rents in their clothes, both 
found themselves at last at the foot of the waterfall that here sunk, 
with final white hiss and ceaseless rush, into a deep, dark poo]. 

“ Show me those poor little hands of yours now, and I’ll wash 
them,” said Blyth, kneeling on the edge of the rock-basin; and, 
though his words were curt, schoolboy-like, his action was tender as 
his heart was soft. 

“ flow strange it is here: how dark and wild! Do you think any 
persons have ever been here before ourselves?” murmured Joy, 
shrinking close to his side and looking timidly around, her more 
fervid imagination, of Southern root and tropical birth- influences, 
impressed, as was not Blyth’s steady, sterner nature. 

The glen was dark. On either side the trees almost met across 

* Wisht means weird or uncanny, in those parts. 


JOY. 


62 

the high cliffs; while here and there crannies, among rocks and 
bushes, looked black as midnight caverns, even by day. In front, 
the foaming white water came billowing dowm, leap upon leap, from 
a fai, narrow streak of light up there among the foliage, which alone 
told of upper world, air, and freedom on the moors. 

The waterfall’s sprav w'et the children’s heads as they knelt; the 
rocks were slippery under them. Long fringes of terns hung thick 
and moist along the walls of rock. Long water-grasses waved in 
(he hurrying water, with sinuous motiou,like the feelers of some 
half animal plant. There was hardly a sound, little air, in this cool, 
green obscurity, where tradition said the sun never shone down but 
for one midday hour on one day in the year. And what that day 
is, no man knoweth. 

The children rose, and wandered further along by the stream’s 
side. Here the glen began to widen; the light to break down. 
Presently, the banks on either side became little open glades, with 
a greensward as old as fairy days, though only the rabbits kept it.so 
short and sweet now, and pattered over it on summer nights. Bosky 
underwood was dotted here and there; hawthorn-trees, so old, gray- 
bearded wi^h lichen, and stunted, they might have seen Merlin, 
stood in clumps, rejoicing in fresh leafage. For it was the time of 
spring, and all the woodland sides of the dell, and every nook and 
cranny, too, were bursting out in tender green, while golden prim- 
roses made libations in treasure spots of happy brightness, or shone 
elsewhere in scattered stars, like 

“ Fancies that fi’olick it o’er the earth.” 

Tender bluebells hung on their hollow stalks in the thickets, 
gleaming azure in shy company. There was a twittering and sing- 
ing everywhere to be heard from branch and brake in this sweet, 
secluded hollow, where no rough winds came down or disturbing 
foot of man trod. This narrow moorland rift, rather than glen, was 
like a little bit of Eden on this spring evening, here where it re- 
joiced in the kindly warmth of sunlight, God’s chiefest blessing on 
eailh; the birds hopped about more fearlessly than elsewhere, and 
the rabbits, scuttling with jerking white tails, sat up and gazed curi- 
ously at the children, thinking, each and all, it seemed, “We know 
Magdalen, wm love Rachel, but who are you?’’ 

“ What is that?” both Blyth and Joy had exclaimed simultane- 
ously, as a strain of strange music faintly reached their ears. They 
paused, looked at each other, wmndering in hushed murmurs what 
this might mean; then hand-in-hand the boy and girl stole on to- 
gether, keeping behind the shelter of the bushes as they approached 
the elfin sound. It was delicate music, played on strings, for cer- 
tain; as now and then the air seemed picked out with a slightly 
twanging sound, then by fits and starts the hand would be swept up 
and down with a rush and a wild shake or two, and then again it 
would strike the instrument with a deep sound that intensified the 
bass, like the drum in a band of shrill light pipings. 

Holding their very breath with exquisite delight, for such music 
had never been known in all the country round about, they parted 
the bushes and peered through. 

In the sunniest little open of all, Magdalen sat on the river’s bank. 


JOY. 


63 


Her hood was thrown back, her dress was loosened at the throat, 
and her sleeves were rolled up as it to show the rounded whiteness 
of her arms. 

She had placed a fantastic garland of bluebells and ferns on her 
fair hair, and bunches ot starry primroses in her bosom; and so, be- 
lieving herself secure from all eyesight, bent over now and then to 
see her dark reflection mirrored "in a still, clear pool below, as well 
as might be. Sometimes she would wave her arms and raise them 
in graceful attitudes, admiring the outline as she gazed. 3 'hen she 
would snatch up a guitar in her lap, and, playing it with filful pas- 
sion, draw forth the sweet, maniac music that had inthralled the 
■children’s ears, now wailing, sobbing, or in plaintive murmurs; 
again madly merry, like a gypsy’s carousal song, sung to the sound 
of castanets and tambourine — a snatch, no more, for too soon the 
broken, doubting chords began again. 

But hark! some memory of an air crossed her distracted mood, for 
she raised her head, played a prelude with a light laugh and linger- 
ing lingers; once more, with growing passion and a wilder, more 
rapid, 3'-et assured touch. Then, looking up to the sky and woods 
for inspiration and audience, she began to sing, 

“ Taza be taza, 

No be no.” 

It was the famous Gazel of Hatiz, familiar to all nautch-girls in 
India who have sung and danced to “ Mutriba Khush, his sweetest 
song,” so the words begin, perhaps since ever the poet’s lips first 
uttered them, five hundred years ago. 

The listeners still listened, entranced, after the last notes had died 
away. But then — 

Up sprung Magdalen, Hung down her guitar, and, as if intoxicated 
with the praise and applause of an unseen audience, she smiled in 
ecstasy, bowed to all sides, pressed her flowers to her heart with a 
pretty gesture ot deprecation yet triumph. Then, daintily holding 
out her skirts with her finger tips, began to dance on the short green 
turf. First she moved airily, with measured steps, courtesying, 
•crossing, taking hands in graceful windings and turnings with imag- 
inary partners, "at whom she threw coquettishly bright or languish- 
ing glances, poor soul! But soon, possessed by her own music, that 
had mounted to her brain, her feet moved faster and faster, as if im- 
patient, till presently she was dancing in a maddened whirl, with 
flying steps that beat their own time, on the greensward. Round 
nnd round, with upraised arms, Magdalen, with heaving breast and 
hair now fallen down in loose, disordered light masses, still, like a 
maenad, went on, on, on! in that wild dance; with many circlings 
and wavings, and frenzied, 5'et always instinctively graceful, allur- 
ing gestures, till the brains of the children grew giddy as they 
watched trom their ambush. 

One last convulsive whirl; then her muscles flagged, and, with 
laboring breath, the dancer suddenly stopped short. She gave a cry, 
threw up her arms to the heavens above as in appeal, then hid her 
face in her hands, and sinking slowly, exhausted, on the ground, 
stretched herself there, with her head buried in the grass. 

She had remembered, by a flash ot returned reason, where and what 


64 


JOY. 


she was. The boy and girl watching knew it; no human soul 
would have failed to understand the despair of that last pitiful gest- 
ure. They shrunk back, aw-ed by their young, intense pity tor this 
disordered intellect, and the mystery and horror of why such suffer- 
ing should be. Then both shivered, as low moans came from that 
prostrate form, those of a soul in agony. The moans grew quicker, 
sharper; then tollowed a storm of sobs, blinding weeping, choking 
cries upon cries. 

The woman lying there knew herself at that moment, still young, 
passionate, with her life wasted, her brain wrecked by the cruelty of 
man; and, “ God had permitted it!” No hope, none, in the days 
stretching barren before her; but the dreadful certainty instead of 
more black tunnels of time, down which her spirit must w^ander, 
groping and weeping for light and company, or else tasting a fear- 
ful, delirious joy, to be afterward bitterly scorned, like that from 
which she had just aw^akened. And still her cries echoed from the 
cliff -sides of the lonely glen, and rang up to the still blue strip of 
sky overhead, through which no angel faces could be seen looking 
dowm in pitying consolation. They pierced the ears and WTung the 
hearts of the children, who felt weak to the marrow of their bones, 
hearing them. 

These dreadful cries against man; to God against God! Would 
they never cease? Frightened and heartsick, the boy and girl stole 
away down the glen; Blyth quite pale, and tears washing down 
Joy’s cheeks. Neither had believed grown persons could be so 
miserable. Long after they had left the glen those shrieks still 
seemed to haunt their ears, and they would stop and listen to any 
faint sounds borne on the breeze. They only breathed freely— both 
wdth a great sigh of relief — when they saw the cheerful Red House 
Farm windows. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ The bairnies they were talking. 

And we listened to what they’d say; 

Says one: ‘ I saw a strange thing, 

As I played in the wood one day. 

I saw— and I saw—’ so it chattered on, 

And all wondered in innocent strife ; 

But we looked at each other, pale to the lips— 

’Twas the secret of a life !” 

Blyth held his peace about the late scene in the glen, when both 
children returned to the farm. But little Joy, who was strangely 
^pale and silent all evening, could not retrain from mysterious an- 
, §wers when Hannah made affectionate and solicitous inquiries of 
her. And so the matter was told to Berrington. 

He spoke to both of the children seriously that night, explaining 
the horrors which even the most harmless poor souls, who suffered 
from occasional dark periods of obscured reason, had endured in 
asjduins; so he and his neighbors and their fathers had heard tell. 
Of being chained to a wall, half naked, half starved, with lesa 
straw than a dog for miserable bedding; of indignities; of brokeu 
limbs and ribs; and the last glimmer of intellect suffocated, till Joy 
trembled and wept, suddenly stirred, poor child, by a storm of pas- 


JOY. 


65 


-sionate emotion, inexplicable to herself. At which Blyth, watching 
her, felt moved too, in an inward way; so that he was half ashamed 
of himself, though with little cause for that either. 

Then the farmer lifted his pet on his knee, and consoled her. 
Nay, there was no cause for such fears. 'While he lived, no one 
should hurt a hair of the heads of those poor women-souls up the 
valley; and afterward, please God, he could trust his boy to guard 
them. Which Blyth, in his heart, there and then swore to do; out- 
wardly he nodded. So Joy, who had hidden her face in his old vel- 
veteen coat, listened to Berrington— her sobs lessening — who hinted 
how she herself, ay, and Blyth, too, in future, might help Miss -Ba* 
ciiel in her good and great work. Especially he bade her, however, 
be careful, now slie was growing such a moital big girl, to hold her 
peace on this matter, which Joy solemnly promised. 

“ And Blyth,” eager for her comrade to be sworn likewise; ‘‘ why 
don’t you tell him to be silent, too?” 

” He is a boy; it matters more to thee,” said Berrington, oracu- 
larly. 

So both children forbore to speak of what they had learned, ex- 
cept to each other. 

“ So that is why Miss Rachel and Miss Magdalen live always 
alone. Have you not often thought, Blyth— no, felt, their lives were 
strange? And this is their secret,” whispered Joy, in an awed voice, 
as she and Blyth sat on a branch of their favorite old pear-tree, on 
high among the white blossoms, dangling their legs. 

Blyth nodded, and said, slowly, 

“ 1 suppose so.” 

He had a way of being curt and oracular now, at times, like his 
father, which Joy found provoking, even unfair, when wishing to 
open her heart in a full disburdening, and, of course, interchange of 
confidences. Joy was so quick in appreciation, she was almost 
Blyth’s companion in intelligence; tor girls 

“ Grow upon the sunny side o’ the wall,” 

.and ripen soonest. Still, Blyth was four years older, and could re- 
call many wondering comments and guesses in scraps of talk be- 
tween Dick and the shepherds, when the child first came to the 
farm. That she bore his mother’s name of Hay thorn signified little; 
for once, when he had asked if Joy was his cousin, his father had 
told him no, with a kindly admonition not to talk or trouble his owm 
head yet on the subject. Blyth, too, believed in the scapegrace fa- 
ther invented for the child by the gossips, the more so as his father, 
he noticed, had never contradicted any chance allusions thereto, 
while Hannah’s portentous sighs were as so many blasts of affirma- 
tion. But he knew, of course, and often wondered over, Joy’s visits 
to Cold-home, and puzzled himself much thereat. These visits were 
kept as carefully secret as could well be by Hannah from the few 
farm- laborers and the maids. Otherwise, what with the child’s 
sw^arthy looks, not unlike Rachel herself, Berrington might not have 
escaped the gossiping tongues of the poorer village-folk, wdio talked, 
often with cruel candor, of all the doings of their employers round 
fhe fagot-fires at night. 

Country gossip is perhaps the worst gossip there is; for open-air 


06 


JOY. 


life, while it keeps most who live far apart from each other iimocenS 
and kindly as dwellers in solitary tents, tends to make some brutish 
in thought, too, as their own herds of,, peaceful cows and silly sheep. 
So, wdien the poorer of this last said kind of out-of-door-living folk 
swarm together in little villages at night and talk, little do they heed 
of the complex motives, the small ambitions, and mors reflned pleas- 
ures familiar, perhaps, to even as mean dwellers in cities. All is good 
or bad to them; what they do not understand they attribute to the 
blackest causes, and that without much malice, knowing no better, 
i’hey feeel so simply but strongl}'’, and wiiile told they have a divine 
spark within them, know themselves so earthly. 

Blyth solemnly believed Joy knew nothing of these surmises. But 
she was very sharp to hear and note, and could keep her thoughts 
secret, too. Also, he suiDposed, feeling as grave as a young owu, she 
guessed nothing now^ of wiiat w^as in his heart as the}^ sat jimong the 
branches. Did she hot, though; a something? For thought 
strangely communicates with thought, especially among those w'ho 
live together and are in sympathy. And the litte maid’s lace gre'^ 
grave, too. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Weep not, my wanton— smile upon my knee; 

When thou art old, there’s grief enough for thee.” 

Greene. 

” Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height, 

^ Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 

The 3"ears to bring the inevitable yoke?” 

■\VORDSWORTH. 

Next day Rachel Estonia had gone forth alone toward the village 
wiieie Joy went to school, hoping to have her eyes blessed by sight 
of the child; her chances for doing so had been so rare of late. More 
bold than usual, because feeling heart-starved for lack of love, she 
adventured herself down the steep lane leading to the village, w'hich 
lay in a shadowy coombe. 

The banks that rose on either side W’cre nearly thirty feet high,, 
and so steep and tangled with holly, brier, and a wildly luxuriant 
growth of flowering bushes and creepers, that any escape up them 
from the curious gaze of peering villagers was impossible. Still, 
the men were at w'ork in the fields; the w^omen w^ere, or should have 
been, at their household labors, for it w^as three of the afternoon. 

Rachel went slowdy, therefore, dowui the narrow stony road, hol- 
low^ed by so many winter rains, and generations of travelers wending 
from the w’ooded rich valleys below or the wilder moors above. 

She feasted her eyes with artistic appreciation of beauty on the 
banks on either side; the lichen out-cropping rocks, or rain-slips ex- 
posing red soil, the weaving fringes and banners of ferns and briony, 
the glory of broom, growing far up, and red campion and bluebells 
minding in startling contrast; the proud hollies, like a serried rank 
of soldiers, meeting the sharp wind of winter highest aloft of all 
and giving its name of Holme Coombe to the dingle. By the road- 
side, a crystal streamlet hurried from the hills above. In winter it 


JOY. 


67 


often poured over the road, making the lane dangerous in times of 
frost. But now it only sung and tumbled in its stony channel, till, 
reaching the village below, it poured so clean and swift through the 
old moor-stone runnel down the street that the gossiping housewives 
all washed their potatoes therein before cooking-time. Rachel could 
see the village lying deep below her now, as she gazed down a bend 
of the road. 

The thatched cotttages straggled pictm’esquely in the valle}'’ 
among apple- trees, their cob walls of mud and pebbles leaning at all 
angles, and washed either white, buft, or a favorite warm pink. 
Nmsy children, hens, ducks, and domestic animals scrambled and 
swarmed about the doors, with cheerful noises that came up the hill. 
How untidy, yet clean and happy, the village looked to Rachel’s 
dark eyes as she gazed. It did her good to see other human homes 
even from afar; and she tnought, with a pang, of their ow'n bare, 
silent cottage, whose brown cob walls, the better to escape observa- 
tion, were never washed of any cheerful color; and where the child, 
their one joy, oulj'- came at times. What a contrast! 

But where was Joy? Some other children who lived on an upland 
farm, too, came trip'ping by, hushing their chatter and stealing curi- 
ous glances as they passed Rachel. ‘‘ Have 1 the evil eye, do tlicY 
think?” she sighed to herself, and went on depressed, with slow, 
hesitating steps. She would so gladly have blessed their sunny heads 
and clear eyes. The lane turned sharply round some high rocks 
now, behind which Rachel heard a little voice singing, or, rather, 
trying to sing. She listened, then crept nearer-— 

“ Taza be taza. 

No be no!” 

sung the little voice again and again, like a young bird repeating 
the first parent-notes it can mimic. 

There was an ancient stone cross raised on two worn steps at one 
side of the hollow lane, and little Joy was sitting at its foot, svving- 
ing her sun- bonnet and humming with a defiant air to herself. 

“Who taught you to sing that, dear?” The child started, and 
looking up saw Rachel’s deep eyes bent upon her. She gave one 
quick, frightened glance round, then, seeing no Magdalen near, 
was reassured. Rachel’s look had a light fo her, like love shining 
through darkness. At first she did not answer, but as the gentle 
woman sat down beside her, drawing the small form caressingly to 
her side, Joy nestled closer of her own- accord ; and presently a few 
questions elicited all. 

“ And so you want to sing, and to play the guitar?” said Rachel, 
dreamily. 

“Yes, yes: teach me! The other childr('n at school can’t do 
that, if they do laugh at me and askquestions— why 1 have no father 
or mother?” cried the little girl, passionately. 

“ What?'' said Rachel, hreathinir the question low, as if nmeh 
moved. “ Do they ask you. about that, Joy? Tell me, dear. Yes, 
1 must know; this is important. ” 

Joy’s face flushed a deep, hot red; but she turned it in sudden 
impulse up to the speaker, who now noticed recent tear-stains upon 
her cheeks. 


68 


JOY. 


“ They do. That is why 1 would not go back with them to-day; 
1 pretended not to care, and sat here, but— Oh! tell me, why does 
no one speak to me of my mother? 1 have asked Hannah about jny 
father, and she said he was a wicked and cruel man, but that he 
would trouble us no more; so I suppose he is dead. But she never 
says that of my mother. She only sighs and says she wishes I may 
only grow up worthy of her, but that 1 must ask no questions.” 

“ Wicked and cruel,” repeated Rachel, murmuring to herself, 
while a spasm she could not control crossed her features, the out- 
come of a sharp pain in her soul, and her lips were dry as she went 
on, huskily, ” Child, child, you must not judge your father. He 
may have been all that, and yet— and yet — Oh! how can we tell? 
Perhaps he never knew! never meant to work such evil. What can 
a child of your age, what can even women, guess of a man’s tempta- 
tions and trials? Never speak of it, Joy, never think of him — unless 
in your prayers; yes, yes; pray, pray hard that he may be for- 
given.” 

” Then he is not dead?” said the child, slowly. 

” We do not know— no one does. He was alive, we heard, tw'o 
years ago, but then we lost all news of himi^ead to us, at least.” 

” To us,” repeated little Joy, whose lustrous dark eyeballs were 
fixed with the gently merciful scrutiny of her innocent age full on 
her companion, whose emotion she perceived; while a dawning 
thought gave a strange, slow tone of happiness to her voice as she 
added, ” You liked him, did you not? I know that, because your 
■face looks so sorry, as if you wanted to cry. But why don’t you tell 
me of her?’' 

Rachel started back, pierced to the heart, yet powerless before the 
child’s words; looking at her with hopeless, miserable eyes, as if 
found guilty of a deadly sin, done, nevertheless, without her own 
knowledge. ' 

But Joy did not see, did not wait. The child of impulse, she 
was carried away by a hungry orphan’s craving, and the irresistible 
idea of solving the mystery of her own birth to her own delight. 
Next instant she had thrown her arms round Rachel’s neck in a soft, 
clinging embrace. She pressed close to that loving breast, and while 
her child’s face, with longing, lustrous eyes, like brown jewels set 
therein, was upturned to that above her in a transport of affection 
and expectancy, she asked low, 

” Are you my mother?” 

” No,” said Rachel. She could utter no more. 

The little girl loosened her clasp, but hid her face silently in her 
elder 's neck, whose arms now' enfolded her. Violent sobs shook Joy’s 
childish frame, in the bitterness of this great disappointment. What 
Rachel, bending over her, meanwhile thought, who can guess? But 
she consoled the hurt young soul with munnurs, with caresses, and 
the unheard, unseen atmosphere of love that surrounded her dar- 
ling, exhaled from her own spirit, and that was surely perceived as 
by a sixth sense, lor presently the first outburst of grief lessened in 
force. 

” I do not know— 1 did not think, oh, for ever so long! there w'as 
some secret about who 1 was,” said the poor child, brokenly, by 
and b}’-. 


JOY. 


69 


Ever so long meani, after all, some months— she was so young. 
Then Joy continued, feeling herself unable to speak the chief words, 

“ But I thought to-day you were— because you love me so much, 
and I love you more than anybody.” 

‘ ‘ Dear, dearest child,” mui mured the woman beside her, per- 
plexed with conflicting feelings that stirred even her deep, strong 
spirit, like the ground-swell of an ocean. “ But still I trust you dO” 
not, you ought not, to love me more than my sister, than — than 
31agdalen.” 

” It I had never seen you, 1 might have cared more for her; but, 
as it is, I love you far the best,” declared Joy, in a clear, decided 
voice, of which there was no mistaking the fully meant intensity of 
feeling. 

Kachel shuddered. Did the child’s words remind her of some 
similarly spoken by another voice? words she had rued her life long, 
yet that could never be wiped out of her memory with bitterest peni- 
tential tears. For her heart, innocent in happiness then, had re- 
ceived their impress too deeply. 

“Joy, never say that to me again,” she uttered, in intensity of 
emotion, hardly knowing what she said. “It is not right. You 
must love her best.” The child looked up, and this time, as their 
eyes met in a long, unconsciously sorrowful gaze, they understoo(J 
each other. • 

“ Ah!'’ said Joy. 

She knew now. 

Rachel was frightened. The young creature’s face turned of quite 
a swarthy red, while the veins of her forehead swelled to suffocat- 
ing painfulness. Then the blood ebbed back to Joy’s heart as sud- 
denly, leaving her face pallid, and her short upper lip quivering. 

“ Is she often like that — like what she was—? Oh! we saw her 
in the glen the other day, so strange and wild. 1 cannot bear to re- 
member it,” she whispered, with faint utterance. 

Rachel bathed the child’s forehead with water, dipping her hand- 
kerchief in the cold stream by the roadside. 

“ JNo, no; not often— you should never have seen that. Poor 
child, you are too young to understand. We wished to shield you 
from the knowledge. Think how greatly 1 love her, sweet; how 
lovable she is; how graceful! You must love her as 1 do.” 

Presently she led the little maid homeward, still silent, still pallid, 
and clinging to her side very closely, unable yet to throw off the 
shock. It was growintr toward four o’clock, as Rachel Unew^ with 
a pang; and tea-time, as all such times and seasons, must be kept by 
herself and the child tor others’ sake, whatever storms of secret 
emotion had shaken their souls. 

Leaving the lane, they clambered up the side of the bank to the 
upper fields. Here, in a wood of young larch-trees, thickly carpeted 
with ijale -wind-flowers and purple violets, Rachel rested on a tree- 
stump. Joy crept to lean against her aunt’s knees, feeling weak and 
childish, poor young soul, by contrast with her late momentary exul- 
tation in flight after a fancied hope. Picking a white star-flower, 
after some grave moments, Rachel showed it to the child. Her fin- 
gers had chosen the only withered, broken one among its satin- 
petaled sisters. 


70 


JOY. 


“ See, dear; it is oiiglited by sun and wind, by no fault of its own. 
Does it not deserve more pity, more love than these other snowy, 
happy flowers? It is like your mother, Joy; will you not try to love 
her best? Think how she has suffered.” 

“ I will — 1 will!” cried the child, sitting up straight, and uttering 
her promise with a vehement accent, looking away from Rachel as 
she spoke. 

Rachel’s lips smiled to herself. Why do lips smile in bitterness 
of soul? She knew Joy would keep her word— at least, strive her 
best. A sort of shame in having wrongly guessed her own mother, 
revulsion of feeling, and a passionate loyalty to the woman hitherto 
unknown, that had borne her, and toward whom the child's heart 
had been vainly seeking, like a disturbed needle quivering wildly 
till it can point truly to its pole — all, all would, must, eject herself, 
Rachel, from the chief place in this young heart, where hitherto she 
had been dearest. And, oh, merciful hearens ! she lored this child so. 
Her heart swelled big with bitterness, felt even such pangs of an- 
guish as if she were renouncing the rightful love of her own offspring. 
But she must, she would, abandon her secret claims on this dear, 
white soul, bravely, yea, and cheerfully. 

” Why does God let my mother be mad?” said the childish lips 
beside her, with dreary intonation, and the first sad sigh Joy had 
perhaps ever yet uttered. 

Rachel looked hastily round. What, would her own mind-troubles 
be reproduced here— the battle of doubt against faith through which 
she had struggled, weary and wounded, to difficult victory? must it 
be fought again, and in one so young? 

” Dear Joy! You believe that God is good, though?” she said, 
witlj solemn reverence, as if the wood were holy ground where she 
spoke to this young soul of its Maker. 

” Of course he is quite good— 1 know that,’' retorted Joy, looking 
at the sky with big eyes, and an expression of face and voice as if 
she would as soon have doubted the evidences of her senses that the 
sun shone up there now; then she added, naively, ” But how bad 
the devil must be!” 

Rachel did not dispute this idea. She was intensely relieved. To 
herself— a large brained woman, having both culture and intellect — 
this devout belief in the devil’s personality was not absolutely neces- 
sary to salvation; but to a young mind, that might have grown hope- 
lessl}^ puzzled over the origin of evil, it was perhaps the best solving 
of such problems. Her pretty Joy had inherited the Spanish wom- 
an’s cast of mind, she now supposed to herself — intensely loving, 
utterly believing; love, indeed, blending with religion and faith, if 
no evidence of powers of mind, yet sweetly supporting life’s bur- 
dens. 

” Yes,^ women with such faith are the happiest,” she mused. 
“ Be their deeds never so foolish, their sins shall be forgivon them, 
lor they love much.” 

She, like many more, was inclined to think that greater wisdom 
than their sisters brought small gladness to women. What had it 
availed herself? of what use her own intellect, learning, brilliance, 
of which her dear father had been so proud, when with admiring 
friends — himself a man of mark among giants of mind? Buried, 


JOY. 


71 

seemingly, among these moors. Y^et, who khows? naught is wasted 
in the universe! The clouds that have absorbed the earth’s moist- 
ure return it in rain; the sunlight, hid deep tor ages in coal-mines, 
flashes forth at last again in firelight flame. 

Some da3% some when, some wliere, in what other life who can 
say? her dormant powers too, with patience added, might know 
again the joy of action. 

“ Pray for me, little Joy— pray when you go to church next 
Sunday,” she said. 

” I will,” answered the little girl. “ But why do you not come to 
church with us too?” 

“ You do not see me,” said Rachel, gently; “ but still 1 am there.’^ 
Then she rose up, and they went tbeir homeward ways, the woman 
to her poor bare cottage, the child to the pleasant farm. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“ Sundays the pillars are. 

On which heaven’s palace arched lies. 

The other days fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities, 

They are the fruitful beds of borders 
In food’s rich garden ; that is bare 
Which parts their ranks and orders.” 

G. Herbert. 

The little church on the moor stood all alone. It was so old, 
tliought the country-folk, that when it was built, or by whom, none 
knew any more than what pagan men reared the circles, and mys- 
terious stone avenues leading to the rivers, still standing thereabouts 
on the furzy moors. A hillside rose steep behind the old church. A 
wood screened it in front, dark and thick, even in winter, because 
of its many aged yew-trees. In troublous days, when Roundheads 
and Church- spoilers had e:one sacking through the richer lowlands, 
they had never come up hither to break the small window of colored 
glass in which the Virgin smiled, or to deface its few rude carvings. 
Quite alone it stood, but fairly placed between the few farmhouses, 
some miles away on this side, and as many more on that. Two paths 
diverged througii the w^ood from the porch, going opposite ways; a 
third mere track wandered down from the hill and was used by the 
few moor folk, and as often by the sheep that came in the week- 
days of silence and desertion to nibble round the gray, lone head- 
stones, where the turf rose in old, old waves, and to he on the steps 
.of this simple moor-stone hermitage in the wilderness; whence the 
hermit seemed dead or fled. They, mindful of Scripture parables, 
were the congregation; the birds, choristers. Lonely, exquisite sit- 
uation 1 

When on Sundays the small bell had ceased to tinkle, however, 
and when the most belated churchgoers through the wood had long 
been inside, meekly kneeling on their knees and acknowledging 
themselves miserable sinner’s, as had their forefathers for several 
ages, with the same old wooden roof above them and ancient stone 
flooring beneath them, then came, last of all, two more figures. 

These were Rachel and Magdalen, hooded and wrapped, wlio had 
come over the hill-brow, from the lonely moor, unseen by any eye 


JOY. 


72 

save that of a wheeling march-harrier overhead. They stole past 
the thick buttressed walls through which the dim hum ot voices in. 
worship sounded, none noticing them because the little leaded win- 
dows were so gloomy with ancient greenisli glass. 

They entered softly into the old decorated porch. It was deep, and 
on one side ot its recess lan a worn stone seat, on which they sat 
down closely side by side. Their eyes then sought with prayerful 
awe a small oblong aperture in the stone wall of the body of the 
church. This was a “ squint ” made in older days for convenience 
ot the attendant or lay-brother, whose duty was to ring the sanctus 
bell when the sacred host was elevated at the little altar inside there. 
Where he had once watched, there with far more intensely earnest 
gaze the sisters worshiped with hearts, ah! so yearning, humbled to 
the dust, deeply penitent for weekly sins that surely the recording 
angel smiled at in forgiving pity. Through the said Joophole they 
could see the backs of the honest parishioners at prayer, among them 
little Joy and Blyth between Farmer Berrington and Hannah. 
Through a second aperture at exactly the same angle with the first, 
but this one in an inside pillar beside the old wooden screen, they 
could see the altar itself. Till the service of intercession and praise 
was over, they sat with bowed heads and hands clasped. When the 
sermon began they went silently away. So they had done unknown, 
unnoticed, for the last several years they had now passed on the 
moors; so they would always do. 

Leaning on each other, they went silently homeward, weeping 
often in a quiet w'ay; Magdalen finding comfort in such support, 
Rachel comforted by giving it. On Sundays, they felt their loneli- 
ness most of all. 

“ Sister,” Rachel would always say, “ let us go in iuxt Sunday 
and pray with the rest.” 

” No, no; not the next one. Some day, perhaps, but not so soon,” 
Magdalen would reply, as invariably, with an affrighted, yet secret 
air. “ Go in, if you like, but i will stay outside. While 1 am pos- 
sessed by an evil spirit, the leper’s squint-hole, where they used to 
look through, people say, is only fit for me. 1 am an outcast, as 
they were. ” 

And Rachel, still thinking to herself, “ This kind cometh not out 
save by prayer and fasting,” wiped her eyes, and was silent. 

* * *'* * * 

It was on a Sunday afternoon; and Rachel had first called up her 
courage to tell her step-sister of Joy’s questionings of heiself two 
days ago, and the consequence thereof. She had feared an outbreak, 
but Magdalen took it quietly, almost lightly. 

”1 knew it must come to this some day,” she said. Strange, 
shitting creature; one could never count on her ways beforehand. 

They were sitting on the hillside among low bushes, but not far 
they could hear the rush and babble of the hidden river. 

“ She must go to school,” went on Magdalen, decidedly. ” When 
she comes bacK to the farm in holidays, she will be too eager to en- 
joy herself to ask questions. And she is too young to be told more * 
than she has found out from you.” 

Rachel only bent her head gravely in silent assent, but there was 
thankfulness in her heart tor those last words. 


JOY. 


“ She must go to a good school, to be brought up like a lady, too^ 
lor she will not have to herd with the boors m this country all her 
life, 1 trust. Why, 1 might go back into the world any day, if it 
were only safe ; Then 1 should take her into society myself,” went 
on the elder sister, excitedly, seizing the initiative this once, some 
what against their usual custom; for in general she would cry in 
careless bitterness, or light indolence; AVhat mattered any\hmg in 
such a life as theirs? Pah! a mere vegetable existence, that of plants 
and bushes. Even the animals had more pleasure; the trees would 
live longer. But now her eyes sparkled, her cheeks took a flush of 
youth. 

“Yes,” she added. ” The very idea would make me quite well 
again, 1 know; if only it were safe! As to the child’s schooling, 
Rachel dear, 1 hate having to ask you for a penny toward it. But 
still you like giving to me and her; and when she comes of age, she 
will be rich, and you shall be paid back everything, interest and all. ” 

Rachel smiled. Would she still be living when Joy came of age? 
She did not hope it, unless Magdalen still needed her. 

” Why should you hate to let me give to the child, without 
thought'of payment between us? It is my one pleasure,” she said, 
in her rich, deep voice. 

” 1 know. But, though you pay for her, still the child is miner 
Rachel. 1 have lost all 1 care tor— husband, happiness, fortune, and 
even my own reason at times. But still 1 will keep my child my- 
self.” Magdalen spoke excitedly, trying to seem laughiugly aftec- 
tionate, feeling she took all and gave so little back herself ; but a 
wild glitter in her eye menaced danger. 

‘‘You are her mother, so what you say is just,” replied Racheh 
” Had she not better come and see you, then, dear, to-morrow?” 


CHAPTER XXll. 

“ In la sua volontade 6 nostra pace.”— Dante. 

The morrow came. 

Rachel went out of the little brown cottage, and began walking 
swiftly toward the hills. She w^alked as if anxious to leave her 
thoughts behind her; to get away, away from them under the broad, 
blue sky, bending in blessed sunshine over the free moors; to be 
alone among the miles of heather and bog, corrie and crag; away, 
away,''too, from all sound or sight of mankind. 

At last she reached her goal, some miles upward among the hills. 
She sat down wearily at the base of three huge stones forming an 
ancient cromlech. The shadow of the fourth, the great head-stone, 
protected her from the heat of the noonday. Behind her from a 
” clatter ” of granite fragments rose what seemed the pillars of a 
huge temple, hewn in the weather-beaten rock. It was a giant tor 
capping tlie hill with a solemnity better betitling the vastness and 
deep loneliness of the scene than the fantastic or grim rock-shapes 
like crumbled idols of its many brethren around; and therefore 
Rachel loved it. Those who seek the loneliness of the high hills, 
either in mind or with the body, are nearest to Nature and to Nat- 
ure’s God. This upland moor, dark-toned now before the flush of 


JOY. 


74 

heather came, wliose streams ran brown but clear from the bo.sis in 
its heart, seemed Nature’s sacied ground; the tor above, her temple; 
the wild creatures of the moor, the birds and beasts, unvexed by 
man, its attendants. 

The one lonely human soul, sitting there, a speck in the land- 
scape, might have been the spirit of a worshiper of that old dead 
faith, which had reared the cronielech over her head with rude but 
giant labor. 

Alone! alone! Clasping her knees Rachel Estonia sat, gazing far 
as her eyes could reach at" the most distant hills that, veiled in light 
haze and sunlight, receded to the horizon; their tor-capped heads 
rising ghostly in the blue distances like earth-spirits turned to stone 
by enchantment. Then, nearer, she seemed to watch the giant 
shadows chasing each other across the hills like spirits at vast play; 
and still she saw them not. The breeze that blew those light clouds 
overhead, veiling the sun, stirred her dark, heavy masses of hair, 
but she did not feel it. She sat so still, indeed, that the shy small 
birds in the bushes near hopped close by her with inquisitive bold- 
ness, whin-chats, stone-chats, and finches; and her fine ear might 
have caught, as often before, the hum of a whole w'orld of insect 
life, unheeded by most grosser hearing. But she heard nothing; 
only her body sat there among the rocks. At last she said aloud, 
“Alone! iny heart and I.” At that she started. People who live 
solitary lives speak of tener to themselves than others; still her own 
voice sounded strange in her ears. It was like the echo of her soul’s 
cry, and intensified the desolateness of the lone woman in the wide 
heather waste. 

She wondered what scene might be passing down in the little 
brown cottage. Mother and child were drawing together, as she 
had wished, planned, prayed they might— even though she herself 
must stand henceforth aloof, not entering into that divine close 
union, nor tasting the bliss of being nearest and dearest to either. 
Her great deep heart yearned tor love with a fervor undreamed of 
even by the best of all the natures round her; and it gave in brim- 
ming riieasure; gave, but got not. 

She had sacrificed to Magdalen her love, nay! that was duty; but 
her life, too, the whole oftering up of herself, body, soul, and being, 
till death should them part. And Magdalen, light, fickle, bright 
creature, loved her as well as she coirld in her sunshiny movements; 
at darker times upbraided her in wild bitterness, regretting her lost 
husband with far intenser love, but hate also in equal violence, and 
a passionate vehemence that tortured Rachel’s soul like glowing 
irons on the flesh. And Joy, little Joy, was not hers. Even Han- 
nah loved her own mistress best. These three were Rachel’s little 
world. 

One other perhaps' still lived who had loved her against man’s 
laws, though she, in her innocence, knew it not; against God’s laws, 
too— but that he. God forsaken soul, recked not, knew not, drifting 
to what dark limbo human knowledge cannot tell — like a storm- 
cloud borne on the whirlwind of his own passions. She had been- a 
young, w’^hite soul, a virgin, with vague Madonna dreams, whom 
innocent — yes, thank God for that mercy — his passionate love had 
yet enwrapped as with fire, till her heart became alight, flaming 


JOY. 75 

heavenward in holy lhanksgiving joy. It was extinguished sud- 
denly, in blackness and horror, by a sister’s threatened curse. 

She awoke, and found her love burned out, blasted; herself inno- 
cent as ever in thought and deed, but stricken with a deep anguish 
that had left such traces as, in this world’s life, would never be re- 
moved. Duty remained- she had followed its stern path to guard, 
cherish, her unhappy, distracted sister, perhaps dedicating herself— 
who can say?— with some unspoken, even unthoiight, feeling still 
for him whose best-loved that sister should have been. 

Yes! he had loved herself best. Rachel remembered it with a 
fearful joy; then, as a tide of dark crimson suffused her face, she 
buried her head in her hands, and moaned at the sin of such mem- 
ory. For years she had fought down the thought. It would have 
been a relief to have screamed aloud to the grandly desolate rocks 
overhead, and the wind-hover poised there, a dark bird-blot against 
the blue, and the wild curlew that flew sadly piping over the wolds. 

• Her pale lips moved now, yet mutely cried in pleading to heaven, 

“ O God, who made me thus, a woman, with woman’s nature, 
capacities, cravings; why am I left so lonely?” Her love shattered, . 
her life ruined! Why was her soul detached, a spark, from the 
Divine All-life, and sent on earth to dree a useless weird. It seemed 
such waste. Not in lightness of spirit, but m solemn faith, as be- 
lieving utterly in God’s holiness of purpose, yet questioning his 
ways, as did Job, with the spirit within her he had created to feel 
what was justice, did Rachel Estonia arraign her Maker with that 
agonized Why? God seemed nearer to her than others. She, too, 
as did Moses, could meet with him here in the bush. 

Though herself Christianized, Rachel was of pure Jewish parent- 
age. This woman, who could trace her ancestors back to the days 
when the Lawgiver had led forth the tribes out of Egypt, thought 
now of their wanderings in the desert, their trials and long penance, 
as of a story that had a near, almost living interest for herself. Tire 
Bible was her chief book in the brown cottage among these moors. 
Reading it, theiMges between seemed to shrivel together, like a mist- 
wreath, and she herself to be sharing in the life of her tribe; dwell- 
ing in the dark tents, in their appointed camping-ground. At times, 
mystic thoughts flitted through Her brain — wonderings whether the 
old, old tradition of transmigration of souls might not have some 
truth. She vaguely remembered some hints of tlfat mysterious doc- 
trine held by the wisest and most secret of Eastern sects, as told by 
one of its i5riests to her father, his trusted friend. Each spirit lived 
many human lives, through immense ages, on this present world (at 
least) he had said; reincarnated, according to no blind chance, but 
to new circumstances tor which their last lives had fitted them. If 
so, might not she, this new yet self-same being, have perhaps sinned 
in rebellion with her people in the wilderness; and dying before her 
years of expiation were accomplished, be now ending their appointed 
term. 

Oh, dread thought! She looked round with eyes dazed by her 
own fancy and loneliness. Forty years in this wilderness of moors and 
hills! Oh, far, far worse than the forty years even in the hot, scorch- 
ing desert; for there her people lived and suffered with all those they 
loved, and the land of promise lay before them wherein their chil- 


JOY. 


76 

dren should go in and dwell with gladness. But she, Rachel ! no 
children’s arms might ever cling round her neck, true and tender as 
would have been her care of them. No wife and mother in Israel 
was she now, great as would have been her love and deep devotion. 
Ah! if she had indeed lived and suffered by the waters of Marali,. 
surel}’’ the sight of the Shekinah must have comforted her. God’s- 
visible presence was a sign unto his people; they kmio why they 
were chastised. But Rachel Estonia now did not know. No pillar 
of smoke rose before her anguished gaze into the unanswering blue 
of the empyrean; no fire-column glowed across the black moorland 
wastes in the desolation and darkness of the mirk midnight. 

“O God, how have 1 sinned,” she cried in her heart, “ that 1 
should have loved a man who was so evil, and that my life is use- 
less and ruined? ’ 

Useless ! Even as the word left her lips, she knew it was not so. 
Useless to have ministered to a mind diseased, through j^ears to have 
kept the light of a fellow-being’s soul from going out during life? 
Nay, not so. And then, as the sun moved slowly westward, her 
story was unrolled before her in thought, as so often before. Tha 
moors silently seemed to know it. Yonder bright sun- kissed valley, 
or that peep into the smiling champaign- land below, was like the fair 
ground which hei* youth had gone gayly through. Then came the 
sudden dangerous" gorges, the difficult but sun-kissed hills, the 
awful black chasm behind that distant tor called the Lover’s Leap, 
the morass of deadly ground in midmost moors that no living man 
durst cross. Lastly, the wide, desolate heath around her now, bleak 
and bare — but safe. And here follows the story they mapped, the 
living geography of the life of a lonely soul. 


CHAPTER XXlll. 

“ Oh, swallow sister, oh, fleeting swallow. 

My heart in me is a molten ember. 

And over my head the waves have met ; 

But thou would’st tarry, or I would follow. 

Could I forget or thou remember — 

Couldst thou remember and 1 foi’get? 

Oh, sweet stray sister, oh. shifting swallow, 

The heart’s division divideth us.” 

Swinburne. 

What, then, was Rachel Estonia’s story? 

It was the old, old tale of tliQ fair swallow and her sister, the 
nightingale, that beautiful Grecian myth. 

The false King Tereus of Thrace had wooed and married Procne, 
a princess of Attica. 

Then deserting her, he sees and loves her deep -hearted sister Philo- 
mel — but here the resemblance ends. In the myth he tells the latter 
that her sister is dead, till, the twain meeting, she learns his treach- 
ery. Procne thereupon kills her child, andilies with Philomel from 
Attica; then beirig pursued, they pray to the gods, who thereupon 
change the wife into a swallow Philomel into the mournful night- 
ingale, and Tereus himself into a hawk. 

f’lom her earliest childhood, Rachel had looked up to her pretty 


JOY. 


77 


step-sister, Magdalen Mendoza, as the bright ideal of all that was 
most beautiful and winning, A dark, grave child herself, she had 
not many attachments; but those lew were passionately deep, and 
took such root in her soul they were part ot it. Magdalen was just 
the opposite of a humming-bird nature, that lightly flitted flom 
flower-heart to heart, sipping the honey from each, then darting up- 
ward and away, like a flickering sunbeam gone astray. She had 
been also their mother’s favorite; but Rachel shared that mother’s 
worshiping admiration too much to be jealous, and loved her elder 
sister better than her life. 

Their household led a very still existence, though one rich with 
pleasures of the truest kind — no Dead Sea apples, but golden Hes- 
peridian fruit as befitted the home of a priest of science. 

Estonia himself was a great scholar and deep thinker; of most 
high esteem among his learned brethren, and, what is rarer, so much 
appreciated and revered therefore in his own household that neither 
his wife nor child would have disturbed his almost sacred hours by 
even a louder footfall than usual on the marble floors of their 
Genoese palace — for then they lived in Italy. Only Magdalen re- 
belled! She was smiled upon and borne with by all, the patient, 
great scholar like the rest; it was her nature, they saw. After all, 
she was their song-bird in that hushed if happy silence. She was 
like the dancing and glancing of sunlight in their great sunk court- 
yard-fountain, that was reflected in shifting, hide-and-seek play of 
brightness on the cool marble wails that were, but for this, shadowed 
in a pleasant twilight during the hottest blaze of noon. 

But when Magdalen grew to feel herself a woman, then— to follow 
the metaphor a little further — the cage- door being one day set open 
by chance, their song-bird fled. 

She went traveling with her father’s relatives; found life suddenly 
a spring outburst of welcome to the new beauty and also heiress, as 
«he was, in certain Parisian salons, at German watering-places— her- 
self a young goddess. On and on she went, fiom one round to 
another of pleasures appropriated to the seasons. Her mother, for 
that first dead husband’s sake, did not like to recall her; perhaps 
could not. 

Willful but charming always, Magdalen had been too indulged 
from her babyhood to be checked now. 

Then they were startled to hear she was married. Her lover was 
a handsome Spaniard, Da Silva by name, whom her friends had 
thought an adventurer. But Magdalen, chafed by their opposition, 
married him in secret; and so, trusting her wayward self and her 
fortune to the stranger, sailed with him for the southern half of the 
New World, as we call it, that is so mysteriously old in itself. And 
then, after a few stray letters — followed — silence! 

An utter silence, as of the dead. Whether dead or living, no an- 
swer came to the loving, urgent appeals, sent wandering on thinnest 
of paper through rough journeys across Brazilian plains and forests. 
They cried to Magdalen, but it was as to a dead wall; no word, no 
reply came back. 

]N early two years had so passed, during which the Estonias 
traveled, and Rachel saw many fair and some strange countries, the 
memories of which were pictures that, in her present hermit exist- 


JOY. 


78 

ence, she would often call up with delight, and see again — the old 
Kile flowing softly by Philfc or Luxor; or the dusky daughters of 
Southern Europe pressing the grapes with wine-stained ankles; or 
the Acropolis outlined white and severe against the fervent blue skj^ 
a noble stone corpse from which the spirit had long fled. Let no 
one say, in foolish consolation for not having seen beautiful coun- 
tries, “ Ah, that is a pleasure to come." Once seen, the pleasure is 
for then and always.. 

But though mother and daughter tlius found enjoyment of eye- 
sight and mind, yet their hearts yearned after their wanderer. She 
must be dead, they said at last; she could not forget them so, other- 
wise! So those who love best always think — forgetting that those 
who are loved have many distractions, self-excuses. 

Then Estonia died. It was a great bereavement to Rachel and her 
mother. Still both felt that, as he had loved and cherished them 
perfectly in this life, so somewhere his strong soul only awaited their 
coming for all three to be reunited as he had^taught them to believe, 
in nobler, higher tasks for which those of earth might have been the 
mere alphabet letters. 

Both returned to England; and there, after awhile, natural hu- 
man happiness softly conquered sorrow, as the young year’s sun tlie 
winter’s rains. And it was spring-time, the time of all love in nat- 
ure, when hearts are set wide open to gladness. The nightingales 
were singing in the south country, and Rachel remembered that al- 
ways thereafter, her heart aching again at their notes. 

Love came to her, too, for the first time. To a woman of her 
mold, the last and only time. Such are grand- natured women, but 
not the happiest, unless Fate is very kind and gives them their one 
heart’s desire. She had been living contented as always, but no 
more, among kindly, prosaic English folk. They were good and she 
liked them, but felt herself an alien. They admired her (which said 
much for their overcoming of insular prejudices), but as a strange 
being they did not understand. 

Then came the King Tereus. lie appeared like a comet from un- 
known regions; handsome, of even brilliant if neglected gifts. 
Rachel crossed his path a moment. He saw and loved her as his 
better self, with his whole powers of being. Ko one of even those 
who blamed him most bitterly ever doubted that! She was h/s ideal 
of a perfect woman; seeming allied to the better spirit within him 
he had so often yearned to he, of the two fighting tor mastery in his 
strange, dual being. To her he had at least been honest, not telling 
her he had been a good man, nay, rather the contrary; but that her 
help, hers only, could redeem him. 

It was no lie. He felt himself evil, but longed to be better; so he 
grasped at a new sin in the vain hope of redeeming the old evil. 
Adoring Rachel as a white soul high above the fatal descent of 
Avernus — from the slopes whereof he gazed wistfully upward — he 
yet would have dragged her down to his side, while thinking her 
hand could raise him. 

Ah! — ^Rachel was one of the most fair- judging women on earth, 
most being too partial 01 prejudiced; and she could understand his 
conduct, and pity him, while pitying, too, the others m this sorrow- 
ful play of life and— herself. 


JOY. 


19 


II a fiend in his conduct to her, he was, nevertheless, Lucifer, the 
fallen son of the morning. She recognized a strong, ambitious 
nature that could not rest, but must ever strive, strive, for good or 
ill. AVomen are like the angels in this, that they will all joy over 
one sinner that repenteth more than over the ninety and nine just 
persons who need no repentance. 

So Rachel believed in Gaspard’s yearnings for good, as did her 
mother, who was won, too, by his grace of address and great love 
for her daughter. And he, unhappy, dark soul, believed also in 
himself. Looking back afterward, Rachel could never remember 
one instance of a word or sign that might have revealed to him the 
fact that Magdalen Mendoza and Rachel Estonia were half-sisters. 
Nor was this very surprising, for Magdalen had been so much more 
proud of her own famil}’’ — allied with the great Spanish Jews — than 
of her simple and scholarlike step-father, that she had rarely alluded 
to the latter and her mother before her rash and hasty marriage. 
After that— finding only too scon her mistake, and that her fortune 
had been her chief attraction— she entirely ceased from all mention 
of her own people to her neglectful, perhaps of ten irritated husband. 
By her own acknowledgment she had never told him of the little 
siker, a child when she left home. 

1 hus, when Gaspaid met the Estonia widow and her daughter in 
England,' as English, both highly esteemed for the late great 
scholar’s sake, how should he guess they were the same family as 
that of the mother and bookworm step-father he had vaguely heard 
of as living in Italy? The Estonias, too, were a numerous clan. 
Again, poor souls! how should Rachel and her mother guess that 
the Count Rivello had but recently inherited that unexpected title, 
and had hailed it, though an empty one, as Fortune’s timely help in 
enabling him to “ turn over a new leaf ”? 

Iro time and events hurried on, oh! so happily. And no warning 
dream, no angel’s voice came to tell Rachel that the spring days 
she blessed, and the love and happy future she thanked God for, 
must be her last great joy; that the summer’s sunshine would be 
hateful to her soon, and the beneficent sky seem a domed prison- 
house overhead. 

The very day before the wedding, as Madame Estonia, Rachel, 
and her future husband were all three together, there came the noise 
of wheels.v, A. murmur ol voices was heard outside — above the rest 
one piercing, that was to the glad ears of the Estonias as that of their 
dead restored to life! 

Mother and daughter sprung to their feet with cries of welcoming 
joy and outstretched arms as Magdalen burst into the room. Gas- 
pard rose, loo, pale and stern of face, seeing his fate had found him 
out! Then all Rachel remembered afterward was that her loving 
embrace was thrust back violently. For, with a dreadful outcry, a 
half-mad, outraged woman raised her arm, arraigned Gaspaid da 
Silva as her husband, and Rachel as her sister, to answer to Heaven 
for their wrongs to herself! 

“ Your husband! the Count Rivello!” shrieked the poor old moth- 
er of both women. Rachel was stricken dumb. 

Gaspard, horrified himself, could not speak. 

“ 31ine!— mine!” she retorted. Then came wild words telling of 


80 


JOY. 


ill-treatment, cruelty, of having been left as mad in a Mexican asy- 
lum, whence she had escaped with her child, born since its father’s 
desertion. It was Hannah, her old nurse, who had faithfully tracked 
her mistress to where she was shut up, then rescued her. 

There they were, nurse and child. In the background stood Han- 
nah, with her well-remembered, resolute face confronting her mas- 
ter, and little Joy — a babe— in her arms. 

Rachel then only saw a man’s face looking at her, as if from far, 
far away across a misty sea of faces and voices; heard these words 
in beseeching, passionate pleading: “ Rachel, forgive me! 1 never 
dreamed she was your sister!” Then understanding it all, and hav- 
ing reached the highest point of agony a human being can endure, 
she loathed the fierce light and the eyes upon her, when there came 
a merciful darkness, blotting all out — hating, it seemed to her- 
self in that moment, the world and all existence, Rachel sunk into 
blessed nothingness. 

Why had slie not died, she wondered afterward. What an amount 
of mental agony people can bear, and live! Our bodies are so curi- 
ously fashioned they sometimes seem to go on living out of mere 
habit, though the spirit within them longs to be freed, and dies daily 
deaths of most poignant anguish. But she rose up, and being 
strengthened to see her duty, set about doing it. Their old mother 
died very soon afterward from the shock, leaving her small fortune 
to her grandchild when it should come of age, so that Da Silva him- 
self might have no control over this sum. This she did at Rachel’s 
request, who herself solemnly promised to share her own portion — 
the slender reward of her father’s science — with her sister while both 
lived; for Magdalen’s own large fortune w^as gone, like summer 
snow. 

But before this last happened there had been a further terrible 
trial for Rachel. Magdalen had declared she would never see nor 
live with her husband again— perhaps reconciliation with Gaspard 
was impossible; not that he had attempted it; on the contrary he 
had, to Rachel’s horror, appeared before her in her solitude, as she 
was struggling back, it seemed, to a life she rebelled against. *He 
entreated, used every appeal and impassioned argument to induce 
her not to desert him, to be still his life-companion and better angel, 
so he said ; lastly, when all this failed, had tried to carry her off by 
force ! 

Upon this, their mother dead, the two sisters had fled together. 
Rachel dreaded Gaspard’s violence for herself no less than for poor 
Magdalen; for in his baffled rage he had threatened to lock up the 
latter again in a lunatic asjdum, in one of those fits of madness which 
had now again shown themselves, and to possess himself of his 
child. 

Strange that his passionate love for herself should have turned to 
something so like hate, thought Rachel. She, who had been blinded 
—almost ruined — by him could not have vexed him in the smallest 
matter wantonly, nor would hurt a hair of his head. And thus they 
fled to the glen of the Chad, parting from the child the better to de- 
feat pursuit. 

Alone on the moors, wilh only her own thoughts to commune 
with, Rachel had often dreaded she might go mad like her sister. 


JOY, 


81 


Again she would fancy, when her soul was weighed down to the 
dust, that surely she must uuwittingly have sinned some terrible sin 
to be so bitterly chastised. Then followed weeks, months of awful 
doubts of God’s goodness, when faith nearly died out. She went 
down in mind to the valley of the shadow of death, through which 
the only little taper to guide her steps in the right way was her love 
for her unhappy sister, increased by pity, and a dim feeling that 
even were there no God — did evil prevail through the world — still 
she herself — Kachel — must do the right! — in defiance of sorrow, 
misery, although her life should be quenched, unrewarded, like that 
of the beasts which perish. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ I found my poor little doll, dears. 

As T played on the heath one day, 

Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, 

For her paint is all washed away. 

And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears. 

And her hair not the least bit curled ; 

Yet for old sakes’ sake she is still, dears. 

The prettiest doll in the world. 

C. Kingsley. 

Sitting this day on the moor, Rachel lived her past over again so 
intensely that she was an unconscious image of sorrow. Dark- feat- 
ured, but still beautiful, she sat almost motionless for nigh two hours, 
while the sun shone westering overhead. She seemed hardly to 
breathe, but for deep low sighs now and again ; her nobly-shaped 
figure was bent foiward on her koees, her bead drooped, while her 
large eyes were fixed, dull and listless, on the heathy swells and 
hollows. 

Now, with an effort, she slightly roused, sat up, and looked with 
more seeing eyes around ; now she remembered how, the darkest 
time passed, she had found her way to a more blessed day — one in 
which the light was that “ which never shone on sea or land,” that 
of a purified, Christ-like love. 

When Rachel Estonia came to herself in her lonely new life she 
had ceased to suppose her affiictions worse than others knew; re- 
membered that the Galileans, whose blood Pilate had mingled with 
their sacrifices, and those eighteen upon whom the tower in Siloam 
fell, were not offenders above others. Nay, but she must repent! 
And then, in the hereafter life into which she seemed already to 
have almost entered by longing, loving anticipation, she should see 
the meaning of these things clearly which she had been called to 
suffer, though now she knew them not. 

” Let patience have her perfect work.” 

Her dead father’s — Estonia’s — words were still living in her mind. 
“It is in vain,” said he, “ to think that all the trouble and danger 
accompanying our disciplifie might have been saved by making us 
at once as we were to le. What we shall be, must be the effect of 
w'hat we will be.” And this world he had looked on as a theater to 
show forth our character, not necessarily to an All-wise Being, but 
perchance to some of his creation, our great cloud of witnesses, 
earthly and spiritual, in view of higher tasks in eternal life. 


82 


JOY. 


Why are the wicked so often happy, ami the good afflicted, she 
had wondered with the psalmist in her past dark days. She won- 
dered less now. ’What was salt for but to purify, and leaven to mix 
with the unleavened lump? And if at times she lamented within 
herself that her love’s passion had been so wasted, as it seemed, yet 
a dim thought vaguely whispered that her prayers might therefore 
the more avail Gaspard, in that she strove with ever-increasing in- 
tensity of purpose to be righteous. 

Women are strangely prone to love unworthy men if thrown in 
their society. How often Miranda is mated, not matched, with 
Caliban, and Athene to Satyr.” Although themselves nobler, al- 
though dimly aware their glorious devotion is offered to a poor ob- 
ject, yet they are unable wdiolly to root out the feeling. Why is 
this? . . . Surely there must be some great hidden law of compen- 
sation in the universe. If the wise mated only with the wise, the 
weak with the weak, it would be an ill world tor the latter. And 
such good women, if they believe that “ all things work together 
for good to them that love the Lord,” wdll possess their souls in 
patience and be comforted; seeing that here they are, maybe, in- 
struments in God’s hands for saving such men’s souls; ana there — 
in the future life — they can trust also to Him. . . . 

What helped Rachel most through her long time of trial was her 
glorious love for her sister. This strengthened her to endure, and 
warmed her with a glo’w of heart. And Magdalen had accepted her 
as a fellow- sufferer, extending her own self-pity in a curious w^ay to 
Rachel. Gaspard da 8ilva liad ruined her life, she said, and her 
sister’s, too; Rachel ” would never get over it,” she mutely argued 
with herself, therefore she also was happiest far away from the mad, 
whirling world. Rachel had always been so terribly in earnest, ever 
since she had learned to toddle — yes, even when a grave, dark-eyed 
baby. 

In this way, in her saner intervals, Magdalen taught herself to 
look on her sister’s companionship and devotion as only natural; 
her imagination so subtly weaving this reasoning that she herself 
believed in it utterly, and even Rachel wondered at times whether 
her sister was not right, and that, if even Magdalen recovered, she 
herself must never know a new spring to the winter of her life. 

For the first year or so, poor, afflicted Magdalen no doubt hoped 
to recover quickly from her distressing malady; then she, as the 
lighter spirit, would lead back Rachel to “ the world,” and bid her 
cheer. Later, she grew used to looking on her own recovery as a 
longer way off; their utter loneliness of existence pleased her crazed 
fancy by its freedom, however she railed against it; she grew used 
to it, and to Rachel’s life-service, as a matter of habit. 

Magdalen spoke very little; indeed, for days sometimes, would be 
utterly silent. This was worst when she felt her attacks drawing 
on. But then! — her fermented imagination burst forth, soaring to 
such wild heights of bliss, or falling to such unspeakable depths of 
woe, as those in full health of mind rarely it ever know. Her long- 
restrained speech w'as loosed! and now she would talk and talk, 
with such a sparkling play of wit— wild, weird, but beautiful fan- 
cies, 1 hough broken, short, and confused — that Rachel thought, 
with sorrowful admiration, her words were like jewels all fallen 


JOY. 


loose from their setting; a kaleidoscope of gems, or sunlight upon 
dancing water. 

Meanwhile Eachel at first, nay, even tor long! had hoped and 
tried to believe that patient love might cure her sister. But as 
months and years passed, still darkened by periods of affliction, 
hope grew tired. 

Uh, God!” prayed the poor woman often with herself, “ let me 
live so long as 1 can be of any comfort to her, for the love 1 unwit- 
tingly stole from her. Only for lhat I am very weary, and would 
gladly rest.” 

Evening had come. 

Eachel woke up to full reality, and found herself sitting bare- 
headed in the low, slanting light. The shade of the cromlech had 
left her, and now was thrown behind in three long shadows on the 
hill-side. She rose to her feet, and, standings pra.yed and gave 
thanks in her heart. Seven times a day she did so; then was com- 
forted in her loneliness. So having bewailed her life on the hills, 
and found comfort, she went homeward, with slower steps this 
time. 

When Eachel came within sight of the brown cottage, mother and 
child came out tomeet her, and from a distance she blessed them in 
her heart. Magdalen approached silently, with her little daughter 
holding shyly by her hand, the mother’s face under her hood 
having a new expression strangely quiet to her, and subdued. Joy 
did not speak either; but as she looked up in Eachel’s lace, moved 
by some impulse of her quick, warm nature, she took her aunt’s 
hand, and pressed her lips upon it with affectionately childish rever- 
ence. Whatever had passed between the two that day, Eachel after 
that was satisfied. 

The two hooded women stood still, gazing down at the bright 
child between them, feeling as it they were on the other side of a 
great gulf, having left their youth afar over there; but still glad of 
the merry laughter and winsome glances sent across to them by this 
glad young creature, herself the very embodiment of Joy. 

“1 have been talking— talking more than usual for me,” said 
Magdalen, in the sweet, low voice, the winning power of which was 
one of her greatest charms when she pleased, but j^et wuth a melan- 
choly ring., ” I have been telling Joy that, now she is growing a 
great girl, she is to go to a good school to be taught like a lady. So 
now, little one — Juanita— our Joy — you must go home. Eachel and 
I are best alone together.” 

Joy said good- evening, therefore, and went back to the Eed House 
Farm, where Blyth w^as impatiently waiting for her at the farmyard- 
gate, and old Farmer Berrington in the porch. In the kitchen, 
Hannah had a noble dish of smoking-hot ” toad-in-the-hole ” and 
a fine squab-pasty for supper, with sweet cider to wash it dowm, 
and clotted -cream and blackberry -jam to follow. 

At Cold-home, Eachel, leading her sister back, lit the lantern and 
hung it in the window. Their poor supper was only some salted 
pilchards and brown bread, laid on a coarse but very w’^hite cloth. 
Some coffee was wanning by the fire- era hers. Magdalen, who ate 
and drank little, and that carelessly, never noticed that her sister 
denied herself more than one slice of bread, and drank water after- 


JOY. 


84 

ward instead of coffee, reserving what remained of the latter for the 
morrow. 

They might have been lavishly supplied by Hannah from the farm 
did they listen to good Bcrrington’s entreaties; but being very poor, 
Rachel strictly forbade any presents of more than she could pay for. 
Magdalen must not want. But she would have starved herself rather 
than little Joy, either, should miss anything at the “ good school, 
for which she herself w^ould have to pay, as she now insisted on 
paying Berrington for the child’s keep. Furthermore — was it a 
weakness?— she tried to lay by a little secret hoard, in case Gaspard 
should ever want it I 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Blythe, hlythe and meri'y teas she: 

Blythe was she but and ben ; 

Blythe by the banks of Ern, 

Blythe in Glenturret glen. 

The highland hills I’ve wandered wide, 

And o’er the lowlands I ha'e been ; 

But Phemie was the bonniest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green.” 

Old Song. 

So Joy went to school. Not far; it was only half a day’s journey 
by coach. Dick used to drive her to and from the “ Back Bull ” 
(where the mail-coach changes horses) in the spring-cart; lor old 
Berrington was growing stiff in the knees and did not get easily in 
and out of any vehicle, much as he would have liked to see his pet 
thus later— or earlier — on her journeys. 

Spring came with flowers and showers, then Joy returned at 
Easter-tide. Summer brought hay-fields and harvest, then none 
more merry than Joy in the Red House Farm fields through the 
long sunny holidays. Autumn and its apples and the cider-making 
she sorely missed, but came back for the Christmas merry-doings. 
Then they had monster fagots piled in the great kitchen fireplace, 
and young Steenie Hawkshaw, and girls and boys from the other 
farms more far than near around, indeed, came to have romps under 
the mistletoe-bough, and to make havoc in the glorious piles of 
pasties, apple-pies, mince-pies, and cakes that Hannah hadjprepared 
for her darling’s return. 

Good Hannah! She declared herself most lonesome w’-hen Joy 
was away; yet, in truth, her hands and mind 'were so lull with the 
day’s work at the farm, year out, year in, and she herself so happy 
in thus being busied, that her nursling’s absence gave her only that 
last luxury — something more to look forward to. Then, when home- 
coming arrived, how she and Farmer Berrington would perform a 
mutual litany of admiation and thanksgiving, in which Hannah 
uttered ihe praises and the farmer said amen, by assenting emphatic 
grunts and puffs of smoke. 

"What prodigious advances 'Joy had made in learning and looks 1 
Iiow daintily she tripped like a young lady, while her hair grew 
glossier and rippling, rolled up in a little love-knot, so to say, at the 
back of her pretty head. And her eyes became brighter, and lips 
redder, and her figure taller and more womanly. The truth was. 


JOY. 


85 

l)eyond sin^^ing and sewing, both of which she loved dearly (that is, 
Iballads, and pretty embroidering of the liner sort), Joy had Very little 
taste for schooling. She learned far more gladly at the farm from 
Hannah how to bone a turkey and stuft it for supper, in a way new 
in those parts, than arithmetic. Still no one was smarter in counting 
the pounds of butter for market, which she did with the help of her 
ten pretty fingers spread out, declaring to IBlyth, who was an ex- 
cellent scholar, that Nature plainly meant them so to be used. 

The old farmer took more and more pride in his pet, calling her 
his “ heart’s Joy.’' But Blylh, who had grown a big young lad, 
now between boy and man, was gettins; shy and awkward, and 
reluctant to dance with Joy and the other girls, yet furiously sulky if 
SteenieHawkshaw, never bashful, caught and kissed the Red House 
maiden like the rest, under the mistletoe’s waxy berries. 

Meanwhile, once a week, or sometimes twice, Joy would trip alone 
over the fields dutifully to the lonely brown cottage. Thence she 
returned with often blither steps, it must be owned, to the fuller joy- 
ful domestic life at the farm. But sometimes her young heart would 
be prematurely heavy with thoughts of the sadness away up there in 
the glen. Then Hannah would be surely waiting for her, to ask 

Is all well?” and would cosset and attend her till she partly forgot 
about it. Perhaps Hannah thus atoned to her own conscience for 
living in comfort at the Red House, and graduall}’' coming to think 
of Cold-home and the glen as miles further away than they really 
were. 

Hannah herself went very seldom now ; but then — she was not 
wanted. After all, in conversation she was only dull, she thought, 
and a servant serving another master besides. Truly, though the 
kind soul still heartily loved both her former mistresses in spite of 
Holy Scripture, yet all she had to tell was of the fowls and bees, the 
butter and apples at Red House Farm. The past was a topic 
strictly forbidden; close inquiries as to Magdalen’s health were dan- 
gerous, and often she dared not go at all for weeks, having received 
a secret message from Rachel to stay away. She would gladly have 
helped at such dark hours, but the sight of any one but Rachel only 
made Magdalen worse, it was found, after one attempt. It is strange 
how' our love slowly turns from those who do not want help to those 
who do. Hannah would not own it to herself, yet her ardent attach- 
ment for her first young mistress, Magdalen, had thus become trans- 
ferred to Joy. Meanwhile she had long lived as paid housekeeper 
at the Red House, and was happy. 

If little has been said of her lately in this story, it is because there 
is little to tell. Her daily walks were between the kitchen and dairy, 
fowl -yard and garden. Her loneliest hours were passed at set times 
in a service of cleanliness at the deserted shrine of Joy’s room, 
when the latter was at school. Here the worthy woman dusted, 
aired, and polished, even doubly as much as in the other unlen- 
anted chambers of the fine, rambling old farm- house. Then she 
would say her prayers at night, content to think that no dust left in 
dark comers reproached her conscience. 

If at times a thought like a north blast struck Hannah that per- 
haps she might have to leave all this with the child and her mistress 
again, she shivered to herself, stout, strong woman though she was. 


86 


JOY. 


Sbe had known wanderings and romance of perils enough; let her 
rest only now in this blessed land it it might be! What with spring- 
cleanings and sheep shearings, and harvest suppers and cider-mak- 
ings, picklings and preservings, she had change enough in her life 
to content her. 

As to Rachel, the seasons to her now meant Joy’s coming and 
going; her winter began when school opened in autumn, and De- 
cember’s dreariest days budded with gladness at seeing the child. 
No one knew, not even the sirl Joy, how that large, lonely heart 
pined for hei. Magdalen was sometimes vexed, and spoke her 
thoughts, that her daughter had not more accomplishments like her- 
self, bright talent that would shine in society “ some day when they 
left the moors.” But Rachel, it she sighed, smiled also. It is natu- 
ral in us all to wish the young, in whom our lives and thoughts are 
centered, to carry on our tastes and life-efforts into a later genera- 
tion. 

” But the child is not of Magdalen’s own nature, nor like me,” 
she thought. ” She is meant just to love and live, satisfied wherever 
her lot is cast; and such a woman is blessed and wise in her seem- 
ing unwisdom.” 

And y^ar by year, the more Rachel Estonia was drawn with her 
whole heart to the child, and longed to have her nearer to herself, 
the more she saw that it must not be. The lonely life of two 
women who almost felt dumb from lack of expression was not fit for 
such as Joy. Boor fare, a dark past for all background of thought, 
and sometimes as the subject of their rare talk — hopelessness of the 
coming years! these were not meet for that young lark which sung 
and fluttered from pure gladness in its spring time of life. 

One day this was brought strongly home to her. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ Oh, the wafts o’ heather honey, and the music o’ the brae. 

As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a’ the day. 

Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky.” 

C. Kingsley. 

It was a late September day, warm and still, when old memories 
stir and rise most in our minds as the year softly dies. Magdalen 
and her sister had gone up on the moors to spend a long daj^ there 
in the fresh air and sunshine, as till winter began they mostly al- 
ways did. Rachel sometimes rebelled inwardly against what seemed, 
as regarded herself, wasted days spent in no useful work for other 
children of men, only in wandering over the hills. Then she chid 
herself. It was God’s work, and if her Maker chose thus to employ 
the high faculties He had given her, might she not remember that 
” they also serve who only stand and wait ”? She dared not let Mag- 
dalen stray anywhere alone except up the glen, which last was both 
lonel}’- and safe. There were shaking bogs on the moors, treacher- 
ously green from rank marish grasses, and edged with sundew and 
cotton-grass, any one venturing over which might lose his life in a 
horrible way. Many a day, out of pure freakishness, Magdalen 


JOY. 87 

would wander nowhere else but in these parts, shunned by even the 
few shepherds and moor-men wlio passed thereby. 

Often, for work’s sake, Rachel would cut heather to make 
brooms, and carry it down in a blooming pile on her strong shoul- 
ders at sunset. But frequently Magdalen was vexed with her for 
undertaking this toil. 

“ It is such labor. Why your hands are as coarsened afterward 
as if you had been hedging and ditching!” she would cry, looking ' 
at her own small fingers, which she carefully kept smooth and 
white. 

“ Dear, it brings me in a little money to give to the poor.” 

“ The poor! There are few poorer than ouiNelves. Why, 1 would 
rather go with Jess food or fire or something. Don’t do it, at least 
to-day, Rachel, to please me; it is lonely for me to see you work- 
ing, and, as 1 say, it will spoil your appearance so much, if ever we 
go back, ’ ’ 

So she would break off her sentences. Rachel, understanding, 
would stop her work. As to Magdalen being ever shorn of any few 
comforts, Rachel dismissed the thought at once, as the jjoor creat- 
ure herself soon. forgot it. If they ever went back! Ah! Rachel, 
knew hers was a life-task, without any hope to lighten its gloom, 
not so much as a rush-light’s glimmer. 

So, on this especial day, the sistei-s were sitting silent and side by 
side in an ancient sacred circle of uprigkt stones called the Gray 
Wethers. There were nineteen of them; some small enough, half 
sunken, others nine feet high. Tradition said they were once all 
young folk, who began dancing here on a Sunday afternoon, _aiid 
were suddenly turned to pillars of stone in punishment for their sinT 
Furthermore, at noon on a hot day these stones might still be seen, 
it was believed, courtesying softly, and rising and sinking in a 
ghostl}'- dance with their gray granite partners. 

Joy loved to believe this, and declared she herself had certainly 
seen them from afar swaying like shadows on water, though it had 
been a hot midday in broad sunlight. 

” Why, of course!” Blyth answered, smiling, with a rather dis- 
paraging air, having few superstitions housed inside his handsome 
flaxen head. ‘‘Just so in winter, when they light the stove in 
church, you may see the air above it quivering and dancing too in a 
sort of haze. The summer sun is the stove that heats our moors and 
makes objects near the earth seem tremulous; the devil is not the 
piper to our poor Gray Wethers.” 

“ Blyth, you are a boy without any reverence,” retorted Joy, 
with dignified reproach, having a most wholesome awe of the devil 
herself. 

It was very warm for September. All around the sisters’ eyes 
strayed wide over rugged, desolate moor that lay up hill and down 
dale, black bogs showing in some of the hollow^s. Yet, rugged or 
not, it wras a grand view under that hot, wide sky, softened by an 
autumn haze "and a few lazy clouds low down on the horizon. • It 
was so free— only a few loose stone fences might be seen at great 
distances, marking rather than inclosing large tracts; and these 
walls the straying mountain she(ip and ponies easily jumped. All 
around Nature was mistress, and her sway was shown in a thousand 


JOY. 


88 

signs, had one eyes to see her delicate handiwork; but, in a tew 
plain words, there was neither sight ol human dwelling nor sound 
of man. Overhead, a moor-buzzard might be seen; and other birds, 
such as reed-warblers, golden plovers, coots, and water-ouzels, 
were in the marshy places, and black grouse and landrails, with 
small song-birds, on the moors. The cloud-shadows swept unbroken 
in grand breadth over the hills — who notes them in the hedged and 
wooden lowlands? 

True, where nian plows and sows, he paints the smiling cham- 
paign country with bright colors unknown up here, miles and miles 
ol brown-gold wheat, leagues ol paler coin and of meadow-grass, 
scarlet clover, orchards of rosy flowers or ruddy fruit. Here the 
heather that made the hills all one broad, violet flush, is over; the 
golden furze that vied therewith in wide-spread glory is past too, 
for the most part — what remains? All along the bed of the Chad 
down yonder mountain-ashes spread low and graceful among gray 
or white granite bowlders, and the brilliant red of their berries 
glows like flame beside the water’s brown current, There are acres 
of giant bracken, so golden that a bit of mellow sunset appears to 
lie on earth, or again shading into brown in an unimaginable rich- 
ness and difference of tints. 

This little upland world is all colored in subdued tones ; grasses 
and marsh-plants, lichened or mossj’- rocks, weather-beaten crags on 
the hill-crest, tiny flowers that scarcely attract the eye till closely 
looked at. Yet what infinitely variegated hues the moors have; 
what a movement of lights and shades; what an exquisite sense of 
rest and pleasure! Tired eyes feel jarred by no inharmonious con- 
trasts, here where unity of design spreads for leagues around; and, 
lastly, a peace falls upon the soul in the solemn stillness, where 
the slow seasons bring such gentle change, and the land rests in a 
perpetual Sabbath, unvexed by labor. 

Magdalen spoke first, and dreamily, as they sat together. 

“ Joy is away riding over the moors somewhere. The hounds are 
out — cub-hunting, she said— -Blyth Berriugton was to take care of 
her.” 

” Where were they to meet, dear? Y’ou never told me;” and Ra- 
chel sat more upright, and looked intently round on the hills that 
were like a sea, of which the great rolling earth-waves had been sud- 
denly arrested in full motion. 

”1 forget — 1 hardly listened.” And Magdalen went on with a 
silent amusement— plaiting little butterfly cages, as children call 
them, of rushes she had gathered on her way. 

The silence w^as resumed; but before long Rachel exclaimed, low, 
” What is that?” 

Across the broad, green hill-side before them, on the far side of a 
deep comb, as she gazed, surely her keen vision caught sight of 
something like a fleeting speck — another; and while she still 
doubted, what seemed a white patch, a fragment of snowy cloud 
from the sky, swiftly racing over the moor. Then followed a scar- 
let dot in motion— more red dots. 

” It is the hounds— there is the hunt!” Magdalen cried, in excite- 
ment. 


JOY. 89 

The hill looked as steep as a house-roof, as seen from the stone 
■circle; but distance deceives. 

“ There is a darker clump of riders— not red-coats. Joy must be 
among them,” Rachel uttered, watching these last specks with in- 
tense earnestness ot gaze. 

To right of the hounds fled away a little cluster of what seemed 
at this distance tiny shadows, that was a herd of ponies. To left, 
another, up the hill-face — those were red cattle. The pack swept up 
to the sky-line; the darker flecks — as the riders still seemed — fol- 
lowed them to the breezy ridge — disappeared. 

The play is over,” said Rachel, then. 

Her sister rejoined, grumbling. 

‘‘Yes; it was like the ghostly hunt on the Hartz mountains. It 
is too bad — all over so soon! We shall see no more now, 1 suppose.” 

Not so, however: After a few minutes a musical sound came 
faintly wafted to their listening ears; again, again! Down in the 
glen, among the copse-wood, the hounds were giving tongue now 
Thej" must have c^ome at a tremendous pace to be there so soon. 
Then a reddish object became visible, making for a gorse-path by 
the Chad, stealing out soon by another corner as the hounds dashed 
in. Hu-sh! straight up the slope to tbe stone circle, leaping 
along among heather and gorse, came the handsome red creature, a 
fine cub fox Magdalen and Rachel, who liad risen to their feet, 
stood still as statues. Perhaps poor Reynard thought them only two 
more of those upright Druid stones as he flew past in his hot race for 
his life, with the hounds, who had now viewed him, streaming up 
the slope at a bloodthirsty pace. 

He went straight toward a treacherous black bog, between the 
two nearest hills, with despairing cunning. Another few moments, 
and the sacred circle was full of a mass of eager hound- heads, and 
white and dappled bodies, and waving tails, as the pack burst 
through in full cry. Behind, three riders came thundering noim- 
iessly up through the heather. 

What, Joy! Joy herself, riding on a moor pony with handsome 
Steenie Hawkshaw, wearing pink, and riding close beside her on a 
black hunter; while a more modest black Sunday coat kept as jeal- 
ously near on her other side. He was mounted on his good mare 
Brownberry, his heart’s pride, and he was watching sternly from 
under his broad brows both his impetuous charge, his rival, and, 
above all, the hounds. Joy waved her whip, seeing the dark figures 
first. ^ 

“We are leading them all — the rest are behind— bogged, 1 
think,” she called, in a delirium of ecstasy, as they galloped by, her 
last words coming fainter on the breeze. Her dark hair had broken 
loose, and was blowing behind her in a veil; her face was joy itself 
in brightest being, with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks. Her still 
childish figure wearing a ^)lue short habit, she sat her rough bay 
pony as if, like a true daughter ot the moors, she and the little ani- 
mal were one. 

“ How well she looks , the little flirt! Oh, if 1 were but j'oung 
again!” cried Magdalen, her blue eyes sparkling with the excitement 
of the scene, as, leaning on a stone pillar, she watched the three ride 


90 


JOY. 


down to the quagmire with such intentuess she saw and heard noth- 
ing else. 

But Hachel’s fine ear caught fresh hoof -strokes behind on the soft 
s warn'd. She looked round, anxious to escape the sight of more hu- 
man beings, who always excited her sister’s poor crazy brain.. Some 
of the belated riders were coming up, old Hawkshaw’s burly figure 
foremost, a mass of mud on one side from his eyfes to his spurs, and 
his hot temper the worse for the bogs. Seeing the sisters, he pointed 
the butt of his whipuat them with a brutal oath. 

“ See there! — blast them! ISo wonder we have bad luck to day, 
with those old witches looking on to spoil sport. See them — devil 
fly away with them. ” 

There came bursts of laughter, but warning exclamations from 
the other men— broken sounds— such as, “Keep a civil tongue, 
Ilawkshaw.” “ The black sisters. ” “ Best let them alone. ” The 

voices hushed aiJi the sportsmen urged their panting horses iiast the 
sacred circle: not a sound was uttered, and several of the farmers, 
as these men were, looked the other way. Rachel’s gorge rose. “ As 
if we had the evil eye,’’ she said in her heart, deeply hurt and in- 
dignant. Then, from long habit, she quickly turned with fearful 
caution lest Magdalen in a frenzy should scream and leap out in 
anger against them. 

tier sister had heard nothing. She remained with eyes fixed on 
the bog below, through which the hounds were now floundering. 
Blyth Berrington waved to Joy in a masterful way to come after 
him by a track he knew of old, and few save himself and the shep- 
herds. 

“ This way, Joy, follow me — this is the only safe part.’’ 

“ Don’t mind him. Let me be your guide, and you shall have 
the brush,’’ laughingly cried Steenie Hawkshaw. 

Blyth’s boyish face flushed red. 

“ Joy! My father desired me to take care of you.’’ 

“ Then you can do so by coming after her,'' mockingly answered 
his handsome enemy. “ Is he your master. Miss Joy?’’ 

The two young fellows in their hearts hated each other. Joy 
looked from one to the other. Blyth’s tone had nettled her pride^ 
and he truly, like most fair-haired lads, looked younger than his 
age. Long-limbed and raw, with only callow down on his face, his 
body was as yet thin and awkward, though bearing the promise of 
future great strength. But Steenie already was a grown 5mung man, 
middle-sized and stout enough. His gypsy lace, high-colored and 
full-lipped, with black whiskers, was that of a youthful Bacchus 
now, though it ihight coarsen early to appear a Silenus, like his fa- 
ther. 

Joy looked, one swift moment, at his gay, laughing features, then 
at Blyth’s wrathful expression, like a righteous Saint Michael still 
in his teens. The hounds were running fast; there was no time to 
tarry. 

“ Go on, Mr. Hawkshaw— I’m after you!” she cried, and pressed 
her pou}’’ forward. 

The sagacious, moor-bred animal sniffed the ground and stopped 
dead short, stiffening its fore-legs to a decided nay. Joy, angered, 
struck it sharply. 


JOY. 


91 


“ Obstinate beast!” cried Steenie, and brought down his heavy- 
hunting-whip across its back, behind tlie saddle, to help mattei-s, as 
he forced his own hunter past her. 

Joy’s pony snorted with pain, and sprung forward against its bet- 
ter will and knowledge, lost its footing, struggled. In front, young 
Hawkshaw’s heavier hoise had plunged deeper in the morass, and 
both were wildly floundering to regain firmer ground. 

“ Help me, Blyth— help me!” rang the sweet young voice that 
had' the most power of all sounds, human or otherwise, over Blyth 
Berrington’s mind. 

He forgot the bay of the hounds, then in full cry in view of their 
tired fox, turned back on his own sure path (indeed, his eagle eyes 
had hardly quitted Joy’s figure but to guide his mare, and he had 
checked Brownberry even before that cry struck on his ears). Just 
a few moments — then, having dismounted, Blyth caught Joy’s 
bridle, and cheered her little steed by voice and hand to some strong 
efforts that landed it with trembling flanks on the sound heather. 
But her saddle had turned, and he must needs see to the girths, 
while good Brownberry stood obediently by, though with pricked 
ears, hearkening to the distant sounds of the hunt. 

‘‘Hooray! I’m out!” shouted Steenie Hawkshaw, bogged no 
longer, who had struck on Blyth's former track, and was pursuing 
it with joyful se)iishness. 

Two minutes more, and Blyth, wdth Joy safe in his wake, was 
after Steenie, followed in' cautious single file by the later rideis. A 
last gallop over a breezy upland, then the good cub ended his short 
life in a rock corrie. And— 

” Here is the brush, JNliss Joy. 1 told you 1 should get it for 3 W,”- 
cried young Hawkshaw, with gay bragging, bringing his trophy up 
to the two riders from the Bed House Farm, who had come — just 
late. 

Joy scornfully knitted her pretty brows and turned from him. 

” Keep it yourself. You would not have been in first at the death 
if Blyth had not turned back to help me.” 


CHAPTER XXVIl. 

“ Le temps emporte snr son aile, 

Et le printemps et Thirondelle, 

^ Et la vie, et les jours perdus. 

Tout s’en va comme la fum6e, 

L’Esperance, et la renomm6e, 

Et moi qui vous ai tant aim6e, 

Et toi qui ne t’en souviens plus !” 

A. DE Musset. 

As Rachel Estonia went homeward with her sister, she could not 
help often repeating to herself, ” Those old witches!” . 

It is always a shock to be called old for the first time. Can one be 
really old and not feel it? Though still a beautiful woman, how- 
ever tried by hardships and sorrow, the brutal words rankled in 
Rachel’s mind like the evil of a poisoned arrow, even albeit her 
Christian charity had made her draw out the dart by forgiveness. 
Oh! if she and her sister were so scouted and shunned, how dared 
she wish even in thought for Joy’s young life to be blighted by liv- 
ing with them in Cold-home’s dreary mud walls? 


92 


JOY. 


“ That young Hawksliaw looked pleasant as he rode past Ijeside 
Joy,” said Magdalen, suddenly, that night. 

There had been silence in the cottage for two hours. The lantern 
burned in the window-sill, the thin red curtain was drawn before it, 
so that a warm glow like firelight was shed therefrom. Magdalen 
was crouched as usual among her cushions on the settle with her 
guitar, but did not touch it. 'Her sister was knitting stockings by 
the light of a tallow candle; at moments she glanced at Magdalen 
watchfully — she was afraid. 

‘‘ Pleasant! He must be different from his father, then,” liachel 
answered, rousing heavily. Curiously, her thoughts had been on 
the Hawkshaws, 1;oo — ” those old witches.” 

“ Why, your favorite, Blyth Berrington, is a mere farmer’s son 
in comparison. Young Hawkshaw looked quite like a gentleman.” 

Kachel dropped the subject gently. She knew what was in her 
sister’s mind, and sighed in her own. Women are always prophetic 
of possible marriages for the children they love. Ah! well, she 
trusted Joy might like the plain farmer’s son best. 

Presently, Magdalen’s eyes began lo sparkle, and she pushed away 
her guitar impatiently. It fell with a clang; yet fond though she 
Whs of the instrument, calling it her ” Ariel, her little treasure,” she 
never heeded, but muttered to herself unintelligibly, with ever-in- 
creasing vehemence and qiiickness. Then Rachel rose, and barred 
and locked the door, putting the key’ in her pocket. It was as she 
feared. The sight of the cub-hunt and riders recalling thoughts of 
her past life, of youth and gayety, had roused the sleeping furies in 
poor Magdalen’s brain, to which her light bright spirits had turned. 

That night, as on many a one before, Rachel took her life in her 
hand when she locked the cottage door. 

She must be alone. If a breath of rumor spread among the moor- 
folk around, who knew but they might believe themselves in danger 
— might drag the frightened, shrinking creature Rachel loved so 
•dearly to the hopeless dungeon of a county asylum, whence there 
would be no joyful coming forth again to enjoy the freedom and 
health-giving breezes of the moors once more. 

What danger there'was in doors Rachel would brave alone with 
faith, thanking God in heart for her great physical strength. Out- 
side, the river was deep and swift in the pools, and the moor wide 
and treacherous at parts; and what risks might not a distraught soul 
run, if broken loose from restraint, and wandering out there through 
night and bog by the water-side. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“ Come with the springtide forth, fair maid, and be 
This year again the meadow’s deity. 

Yet, ere ye enter, give us leave to set 
Upon your head this flow’ry coronet ; 

To make this neat distinction from the rest. 

You are the prime, and princess of the feast.” 

Herrick. 

“A LETTER fur Farmer Berrington— it be from furrin parts, I 
reckon,” said the parcel-carrier who was also in a lesser way post- 


JOY. 


93 


man, stoppin.i? his shaggy pony at the Red House Farm gate, and 
addressing Dick, who was gently resting from immediate labor in. 
the picturesquely old, and it must be owned, somewhat untidy farm- 
yard, as is the manner of those parts, though all told of ease and 
plenty. Dick, like his fellow-laborers, found hearty spells of rest 
comforting after toil, unless, indeed, the eyes of his master or young 
master were on him, when pride, no doubt, will urge a man to 
greater exertion. But the Berringtons, father and son, were in the 
meadows, where the hay-making had begun. 

“ A letter,” said Dick, taking it between a most inquiring- 
natured finger and thumb ; but as the latter had learned no more 
how to read than had his head, this was little profit. However, he 
had the solace of a prolonged easy conversation with the carrier 
before observing, “ Well, good-marnin’. Mistress Hannah, hur be 
in the kitchen, and I’ll take un to hur.” 

Hannah was busy, as always, shelling peas into a lair basin of 
spring water, and she did not fail to reproach Dick’s laziness in gos- 
siping at the gate. Her northern energy was terribly untiring to 
these easy southrons. Then she called Joy in turn, who was busied 
upstairs in the dark wainscoted passageway, putting rose-leaves to 
dry in the sun, for which the deep window-seats and sills ot the 
broad, ancient casements were useful, 

“ A letter! I’ll run and give it to him,” cried Joy, flinging on 
her sun-bonnet, and running out past the bees and through the 
orchard down into the meadow. 

There were the mowers in rows, tolling in their shirts, with bared, 
vigorous arms. Blyth led the row, as was right, by reason of his 
strength and powerful scythe-sweep, no less than because he was 
the young master. Joy stopped to watch him Swish! with a sweep 
and a backward stroke; and swish! with a sweep again. And the 
grass and clover softly fell long, green swaths, so different from the 
meadow’s pride of the morning that Joy was quite sorry to see it. 

Seeing her, Blyth stopped at the edge of the field, and made a 
feint of using his sharpening- stone on the scythe edge with a clirring 
sound, not to seem idly fond of talking to aj^oung maid in the men’s 
eyes. 

“ Have you brought me some cider, Joy?” said the young giant, 
eying thirstily the far cans under the shade of the oak-tree. 

” No; a letter, returned Joy; then, guiltily blushing, ‘‘ but, oh, 
1 forgot; it is not for you. It is for the father, only 1 — 1— don’t see 
him here.” 

‘‘ Why, he is over there, under the hedge,” returned Blyth, but 
not looking himself in the direction indicated; rather slowly staring, 
thinking how well her blush became Joy’s clear, olive skin. 

“Oh, ,l see. Now, why could you not tell me that before?” 
pouted the girl. 

She turned, leaving Blyth with a man’s natural justification 
slopped short on his very lips, and ran, light and lissom, across the 
meadow to where Berrington was examining a gap in the wildly 
luxuriant tangle of native holly, honeysuckle, briony, thorn, and 
traveler’s-joy atop of a high bank, which Blyth called a hedge, while 
it was truly a screen of flowers find foliage. 

“ You come flying like a fawn,- when I’ve seen the red deer out 


94 


JOY. 


on the hills,’' said old Berrington, slowly, smiling at the girl, with 
her dark, liquid eyes. “ \\ hat have you there?” 

“ It’s a letter for the master. And I’m wondering what's in it.” 

“ Spoken like a woman. Well, writing, Joy — I — should— think. ” 

So saying, Berrington slowly turned and turned the letter round, 
examining the postmarks with great deliberation. 

Joy felt the blood rise again under her dark skin. The child— for 
so she still was, in spite o^ her seventeen years— remembered sud ; 
denly that, though no such letters had ever come within her knowl- 
edge to Red House Farm, that was no- good reason tor herself, in 
reality still a guest, to pry into the good man’s correspondence. She 
generally called Berrington, after a pretty notion of her own, “ the 
father ” when speaking to Blyth, and “ the master,” in a laughing, 
roguish way to himself or to others. It was hard to say what else 
or better she could have called him, for “ Mister Berrington ” would 
have been truly stift. 

She felt embarrassed, but the farmer’s hand was laid caressingly 
on her shoulder. A shout from Blyth relieved her. He had ceased 
mowing, having come on a belated landrail’s nest, and just escaped 
the vexation of injuring the faithful mother-bird. 

‘‘ 1 must go — 1 am coming,” cried Joy, loving all animals and 
birds tenderly, but especially fond of hearing the hoarse cra-i-k, 
cra-i-k of these meadow- watchers through the summer nights. 

Away she sped, and heard no more about the letter till after sup- 
per-time, Then, wandering with Blyih out in the gloaming to find 
a strayed galini-poult or guinea-fowl, feminine curiosity got upper- 
most again, and Joy asked, 

” Weil, did your father get any news to-day, Blyth? His letter- 
had Australian postmarks. I did not know he had any friends out 
there.” 

“ He has not chosen to tell me anything about it yet, anyway,” 
said the young man. “ My mother’s brother went out to Australia, 
1 believe.” 

The evening was dark and cool, and fragrant with white mount- 
ain-ash blossoms that swung overhead and scented the air; yet Joy 
felt suddenly hot and shamed and displeased with herself and the 
night. For she had secretly fancied the letter might have contained 
some news for herself. It might have had reference to— her father. 
Ill truth, it was for that same thought that Farmer Berrington had 
been so slow to open it when with her. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ Like a fawn dost thou fly from me, Chloe, 

Like a fa-wm that astray on the hill-tops, 

Her shy mother misses and seeks, 

Vaguely scared by the breeze and the forest.” 

Lord Lytton’s Horace. 

Next day was Sunday; and after church and the midday dinner, 
Blyth asked Joy would she take a walk with him over the moors. 
The farmer was fast asleep, with a handkerchief over his face, in 
his big chair m the parlor, which w'as dark and cool this summer’^ 
day, being wide if low, and wainscoted all in dark wood after the 


JOY. 


95 


fashion of good Queen Anne’s days. Hannah was likewise nodding 
in the kitchen among her bright army of tins and coppers, with her 
Bible on her lap, and a low fire banked over till it should be time 
for tea. It was dull and silent in-doors, even in the pleasant old 
house. Outside the animal world was resting, too, chewing the cud, 
and the birds still in the noonday heat; yet the breeze was fresh, and 
the insects danced, and the river rushed bj'', gurgling an unceasing 
song, telling of motion that was life, life, life, ot the hurry of each 
water-drop to do Nature’s work, out from the earth’s bosom, down 
to the sea, .up to the clouds, falling on the grain, and beginning again 
in a ring eternal. 

The farm stood with one foot on the moor, so to speak, and an In- 
vigorating fresh breeze could always be felt from the hills; the 
heather was springy underfoot as they left the meadows, and the 
sheep run over the first furzy hill. 

Away went Blyth and Joy over the upland they both loved so well, 
and drew in long draughts of the breezy, high air. Down into gorges 
full of oak-scrub, up again on heights overgrown wdth bracken for 
a mile or two, till a wide, lone valley spread before them, with not a 
sign ot human or animal life in it, or on the violet, heather hills be- 
3 ’'ond, save a few half-wild cattle browsing here and there. 

The Ohad was running merrily through the valley, young and 
brown yet, from its source among the peat-bogs higher up in the 
hill’s wild heart. 

Blyth silently led Joy still on to where, half a mile away, the lit- 
tle river’s banks became picturesquely rugged with high bowlders 
stemming the current and piled in confusion along the stream’s edge, 
while the rowan- bushes grew in and out of the rocks where their 
roots could find hold. Bushes they were up here, not trees— vege 
tation had dwindled. 

“ Shall we sit down a little while, Blyth?” said Joy, as they came 
up to the rocks, which offered pleasant seats, with cushions of 
springy heather for one’s feet, and where the small cup-moss she 
loved to look at raised its tiny crimson goblets over the surface ot 
the old, grim stones. She went on, with gay pettishness, suddenly 
turning to her comrade with a flash in her dark eyes and a bright 
smile. 

“lam tired of walking, and not talking. At least this livelong 
day 1 have alwaj^s had to answer myself. You are quite strange 
and silent.” 

“ I know. But I have something to tell you by- and by,” assented 
Blyth, gravely, to her .surprise. ” Will you jnind sitting on the 
tolmen this last — for this time? 1 am fond of it.” 

Midmost of the brown brook a great whitish bowlder lay, with a 
large hole through its upper end, worn smooth by the dash of win- 
tery floods for ages. It was perhaps no true tolmen after all, but 
such some Moortown antiquarian had supposed it to be, wandering 
thereby, and the name had fastened to it. They clambered easily 
enough on the great holed stone from the other rocks, lor now the 
Chad was low with summer’s drought. Joy took off her broad straw- 
hat and let the gentle wind cool her young brows andrutfie her hair. 
She waited in silence, with growing impatience. But at last, as her 


JOY. 


96 

companion did not speak, she cried out, thinking him dull and hef- 
sell injured, 

“ Well, Blylh; You M 2 (^-you had something to tell me?’ 

“ I have.” Blyth straightened his back and looked her lull in 
the face. “ Should you be sorry, dear— should you mind much it 1 
had to go away from the Bed House?” 

‘‘ What? and my holidays not over yet!” murmured Joy, in dis- 
may. ‘‘Oh! I know; you are asked over the moors to stay tor the 
big sheep-tair with some ot the farmers you met last time. But that 
is not till next week, and 1 go back to lessons and primmishness in 
three more days for another whole half-year. There are to be some 
junketings, 1 suppose, 3^011 don’t want to miss. Well, go — but I 
call it veiy unliind, Blyth— I do, indeed.” 

She was near crying. The pleasures of the farm-life, of even 
being with the old farmer and Hannah, both of whom she loved,- 
faded suddenly at thought of losing her strong slave— young t 3 Tant 
that she was. 

‘‘ ]No, it was not the sheep-fair. I am going,” said Blyth, slowly, 
‘‘to Australia for two or three 3 "ears.” 

Joy gave suck a start that he quickly caught her round the waist, 
or she might have slipped down into the water. 

‘‘ Going!— why?” she exclaimed at last, with a gasp. ‘‘Oh, 
Blyth, X know — it was that dreadful letter. 1 wish 1 had put it in 
the kitchen fire.” 

She burst into thick sobs now, not heedmg hardly that Blyth.drew 
her closer to himself, and petted and coaxed her, his own heart in- 
deed being far more sore than her own. She only felt irrationally 
ichat was the use ot his having been her big brother all these years, 
and she his loving little sister, if now half the world was to part 
them and sorrow come and desolation? 

‘‘ M}'- mother’s brother has written --my uncle,” Blyth explained. 
‘‘ He is a lonely man, and childless, so he wants to see me; and 
speaks ot leaving me his sheep run. He seems well-to-do.” 

‘‘ 1 don’t care who he is, nor what he has,” wept Joy, unconsoled. 
‘‘ Once you go out there, I believe you will forget all about us, and 
never, never come back.” 

She had turned away, and bent her face so low over her knees 
Blyth could not see it, being so much taller as he sat beside her. 

Next instant he dropped his body through the great hole of the 
tOlnien, finding foothold below on a slippeiy rock; and so bringing 
his visage on a level with Jo 3 '-’s prett}" lace, rather to her surprise, 
wound his arms again lound her slender waist. 

” Look here, Joy,” he said, reddening, ” 1 swear to come home — 
if you will have me — to marry you. And, if not, then 1 don’t care 
if I never see the farm or my old father again; 3 ''et you know how 1 
love them both! Say— will 5 "ou marry me?” 

Joy pouted, half laughing in his face, with the tears, arrested by 
surprise, stilk hanging on her long lashes. She did not feel herself 
mistress of the situation, being fast held there; and besides, though 
she had grown up insensibly with the thought that she could never 
bear to part frum Blyth, still she rapidly remembered the romantic 
ideas learned from her school- comrades.* 

She should be wooed before being won. 


JOY. 


97 


Kow Blytli, to her mind, was only a great tall boy still, in spite 
of his having nearly reached the one-and- twenty years of manhood; 
and he had surely never rightly wooed her. 

But Blyth, looking at her with blue eyes all gleaming, feeling a 
mighty rush of iiianhood’s strength of purpose within him at 
thoughts of facing the great world, seemed to himself to have been 
v/ooing her all through his young lire. 

“ Speak, Joy— dear — surely there is no one that you like better,” 
he reiterated, clasping her lighter. 

“ Why, that is it. I have seen so few besides.you, Blyth,” re- 
plied the school -maiden, with dignity. Then, seeing, by the pained 
tension of the muscles round his mouth, and by his eager eyes— di- 
vining, too, with her loving heart— how much it cost her dear boy- 
companion to go away across the world of waters, Joy cried, torn 
asunder betwixt her supposed self -duty of pride and real affection, 

” Oh, don’t look like that, Blyth! Listen, I will promise to marry 
no one till you coihe back ; and then, if 1 have seen nobody else 1 
like better, why— why — ” 

Joy stopped, blushing, slie did not well know why. After all, she 
had known Blyth all her life, and to agree to live thus always to- 
gether seemed quite a simple matter, she thought, in a childish w'ay. 
She considerecT her lover raw-boned and av'kward, and not at all 
romantic. 

” Will you put your hand in mine and promise me that?” urged 
Blyth, still not taking his eyes off hei. 

Joy laid her small palm in his, and said sweetly, 

“ I promise.” 

“ Will you kiss me now?” said Blyth, very low. 

“ Oh, yes,” replied Joy, who every night of her life was quite ac- 
customed to give Blyth a flying kiss, aimed at whatever part of his 
cheek or lorehead was attainable, since he generally bent his head, 
as if half ashamed of her caress before his father and Hannah and 
the servant-maid. But now, as Blyth’s lips touched hers for the 
first time, and of his own accord, for many a month, with a close, 
eager pressure, it was — well, quite different. 

He drew back- then an instant, and it seemed to the young girl as 
if the evening sun had transfigured the young giant His yellow 
hair shone like gold; his look was noble; his face strange— that of a 
man 

” Let us go,” she said, in a quavering voice, wishing to laugh at 
her companion, but feeling as it something, she knew not what, 
had happened to them both. 

For a moment Blyth seemed as if he would tain have kissed- Joy 
again; but seeing her discomposed face and pretty lips quivering in 
doubt how to take it all, he controlled himselt, and only pressed her 
two little hands in a grip that nearly made her cry out. Then, rais- 
ing himself by the power ot„his aims, with a strong swing, out ot 
the holed sione, he helped her off the rock, and they went gravely 
homeward by a different way. 

They hardly spoke again; and when they did, it was with con- 
straint, and about the long voyage and Australia. Joy felt she did 
not understand Blyth, lor the first tune; and he felt that it was so, 
because she was truly'^ a child stilj. 


98 


JOY. 


Slowly they skirted the stream; then they came to a strange 
bridge, a huge granite block laid across the Chad. There was no 
other such stone nearer than the pillars of the sacred circle far away 
yonder on the hill-rise, and yet the rude Britons of by-gone ages had 
put it simply down here where the river was too deep to ford, as if 
it were a plank, Blylh, crossing the narrow surface steadily, turned 
and held out his hand to lead Joy. Often enough before she had 
tripped lightly across, scorning aid, or yet many a time had taken 
his hand, thinking nothing of such slight help. But this Sunday 
she hesitated, drew back; then next moment, seeing Blyth looked 
vexed, Ihougli silent, she gave him her hand, urged by another im- 
pulse, and so followed, feeling bashful and ill at ease. So they 
mounted the swelling ground toward the Raven’s-tor, so-called be- 
cause these birds frequented the mass of rock that crowned the hill’s 
crest like a huge mushroom. 

All around here lay remains of an early British village; stones 
were placed upright in small circles, with boundary walls surround- 
ing them ; there were bigger pens, or pounds, maybe ^or sheep or 
cattle; and at some distance ran a long avenue of upright stones 
down to the river, such as are said to be seen in many other parts of 
the world, though to what purpose, unless as a sacred symbol of some 
lost religion, who can say? > 

Blyth stood still, after they had picked their difficult way through 
all these blocks^lying close together, half hiddenjn heather and furze, 
or scattered in seeming desolate confusion. 

It’s a strange sight,” he remarked. “ Look at that old village 
lying rootless, while the cattle and sheep have been wandering 
through its walls for how many hundreds of years. And yet there 
were men and women living in it, Joy, who once felt like us.” 

‘‘ I think they must have felt more like savages; don’t you think 
so?” said Joy, innocently. ” The lather saj'^s, when he was young, 
no one knew this was a village. It looks as if a crop of rocks was 
sown here; not a straight line anywhere.” 

“ I’ve read somewhere that they had round huts; then, most like- 
ly, they would till up the space between these uprights with peat 
and furze, and roof the top with poles and sods, like a brown bee- 
hive,” said Blyth, smiling at her in a curious way. 

‘‘ Ah! 1 see, you thiuk how ignorant 1 am, with all my schooling, 
while you know so much, though .you only read now at home of 
nights,” exclaimed Joy, ingenuously, withTrank. admiration. ” But 
then, I have no head for learning.” 

” Nay? Well, so long as you have heart enough, the head does 
not so much matter,” returned Blyth, oracularly. 

He had not smiled at all in disdainful pity, as she wrongfully sup- 
posed; no! only at the thought of how manj’- men and young girls 
in those by-gone, hoary days must have lived and loved here, and 
passed’ hand-in- nand, over that old bridge, under which the Chad 
still flowed, young as ever. But Joy had not understood him. 

bo they went home to the farm, the young man and the young 
girl, who was still a child in he^irt. j 

Blyth Berrington, therefore, sailed for Australia; but Joy went 
back to her schooling for another year, only broken by holidays at 
the pleasant Red House, that seemed lonely now by contrast. 


JOY. 


99 

Still the red light ot the lantern glimmered nightly across the ford 
of the Chad; and still the “ wisht ” sisters lived their secluded, si- 
lent lives in the little cottage at the mouth ot the lonely glen; or, if 
sometimes seen by the peasants wandering over the moorland, were 
shunned as witches, in spite ot their deeds of ijiercy. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Merye is in the time of May, 

Wheune foulis singe in her lay; 

Flowres on apjd -trees and perye, 

Small fowles singe merye. 

Ladyes strowe here bowres , 

W^ith rede roses and lylye flowres.” 

Romance of ” Richard Coeur de Lion." 

Nearly three years a*fter Blyth Berrington had sailed to Australia, 
Joy stood one evening at the Red House Farm gate. 

The fields were deserted, the farm noises stilled; but overhead, in 
the plain of the sky, the first faint lights ot the watchers of night 
were trembling in the east, and down in the copse by the river the 
nightingales were singing rare!}'. Above her drooped long plumes 
ot golden laburnum, white lilac on either side of the gate scented 
the air, and a wild-rose on a bush trained up the gate-post leaned 
over to touch Joy’s cheek. 

Behind, even in the gloaming, the Red House looked glowing and 
trim. It had all been painted fresh, against Joy’s return, by the 
old farmer, and the brick walls and tiled, steep root, with the dark- 
red wood-work of doors and windows and carved barge-boards, 
made the fine old farmstead seem quite a proper home for gay young 
folk, so he said. 

So he said! Joy, turning her head as she remembered the fatherly 
glance at herself with wnich good old Berrington had accompanied 
the words, thought it did truly look a pleasant home. She had her- 
self dressed up the windows with red blinds, to carry out a fancy 
that the color ot such things pertaining to the house should help to 
bear out its name The now shadowed garden itself was lull ot tall 
white lilies and pinks, columbines, monk’s-hood, and all such sweet 
and long-lived flowers; the rosemary and southernwood, and such- 
like pot-heibs, more for savor than sightliness. But the borders 
round the house-wall gleamed even in the twilight with the warmer 
hueaof gaudy favorites which Joy had planted there to carry out her 
treak— apothecary roses, with their crimson leaves and yellow hearts, 
red sweet pea, flaunting peonies, and an army, not yet blown, of 
such gorgeous great poppies, emperors of their kind, that all the 
farm-house neighbors near and far envied the show and begged for 
some seed. Farmer Berrington had laughed at her; she might do 
as she pleased, being “ the joy of the house,” he said. 

No wonder Joy ihought of his words, for she knew what he 
meant. They had had no letter from Blyth for some ten months, 
and yet in his last he had said his uncle was tailing. 

“ I am not the man I was, cither; so 1 hope my son can be spared 
to come home,” old Berrington had opened his lips to remark. He 
was hearty still, but had grown so heavy that it was a trouble to him 


100 


JOY. 


now to walk much about the farm. His broad, ruddy face had be- 
come grayer and heavier, either with time or perhaps his son’s ab- 
sence, tor SUCH silent men do not take to other folks’ company light- 
ly, or at all, maybe, when those they most care for are gone from 
them. But still his glance would always light up at Joj^’s presence, 
at the flash of her splendid black eyes and her sunny laugh; and she 
Knew what a warm, still quick Jaeart housed in that mountain of 
flesh, where careless or dull eyes only saw a stolid and ponderous 
old man, ofttimes afllicted with gout or shortness of breath, and 
sucb liiie ills. 

Joy had grown taller, fuller in form, fairer to look on in the last 
three years. Now, as she stood there in a pale cotton dress, with a 
wliite'muslin kerchief folded over her bosom, she was — beautiful! 
Bbe laughed in her heart, being young and glad, as she thought of 
Earmer'Berrington’s sayings, and ha.lf hid her face, blushing at its 
own fancy, in her arms folded on the rail.. But then she sighed 
soon, and raising her bead looked down the lane, as if her thought 
would tain see into the dark future as her eyes sought to pierce the 
shadows. For Blyth had not come home; and— he might have 
changed his mind. He was only a boy in heart, though a man in 
years when he left, she believed. 

And when he had asked her to plight her troth down by the great 
holed stone she herself was a mere child, and knew nothing of life 
or the world, and had seen so few besides himself. But now— 
Well, now, not a young farmer for sixteen miles round the moors 
hut would gladly ride tar on the darkest night on the chance of 
meeting her at any merry-making. For she was reckoned the great- 
es t beauty in all the country, so they told her. But she thought, 
alas! so many of them mere yokels, however w^ell-grown of body 
and well-housed at home. Perhaps it was her schooling had done 
it, or some inbred greater gentleness of race ; but she felt there was 
something in herself they lacked each and all, and longed for more 
signs of gentility in her lovers. 

Stephen Havvkshaw, indeed, w^as beyond the rest. But then he 
had been to college (though he could not pass his examinations, it 
was rumored), and he aspired to be considered an equal by the 
younger sort of gentry, as his father loved to be called “ squire ’’ by 
all the meaner sort of folk who wished to scrape favor wdth him. 
Yes, he was handsome and merry, and admired herself, without 
doubt. Did she like him? J07 asked her heart. AYhy, yes; she did. 
Better than all others, even old friends? Well, belter than the rest 
of her farmer suitors; as to old friends, she must see them again to 
know. Heigh-ho! what would old Hawkshaw say, though, should 
liis son ask leave to bring home a dowerless maiden to the Barton? 
And J oy began singing to herself,, careless and happy whatever 
might betide. 

Meanwhile, at this same hour, on this same evening, a young man 
W'as walking toward the Red House Farm, along the lane that led 
from Moortown. He was very tall and broad-shouldered; he wore 
a large soft hat of fashion unknown in those parts, and a short, yel- 
low^ gold beard that was likewise a rarity in those days. Even b}’ 
the make of his clothes he was a stranger for certain; so that the 
maidens by the bridges over the hill-streams, and the men jogging 


JOY. 


101 


homeward on their rough ponies, w^hile they called ont “ Good-even- 
ing ” in the friendly fashion that was usual, wondered who he might 
be, and gazed curiously after him. 

“ Good evening,” he always cried, hut strode on with the help of 
his big stick, never stopping to have a chat, never thinking how, be- 
hind him, all the girls said how handsome he was, and the men how 
big and strong. And yet he felt as if he loved them all. He loved 
the soft-faced maidens, and the men with their kindly, lazy speech, 
the nestling villages in the wooded combs, the tumbling brooks and 
the mossy mill-wheels. Then the sight of the wide moors and the 
free hills and craggy tors up yonder, the flocks of sheep, the soft- 
eyed, red cattle knee-deep in the tords, and in the brooks the beds of 
tall, yellow-lilied iris, and the sweet, breezy air he had drunk into 
his lungs since bo3’^hood— he loved them all. For he was Blyth 
Benington. 

i\s Blyth neared his home with swinging pace, leaving mile after 
mile more and more gladly behind him, he did not heed that he was 
becoming footsore — he did not waste thought in grumbling that he 
had not found man and cart, or any vehicle or beast even, to bring 
him from Moortown. 

lie thought, instead, how purely white the lane glistened here and 
there in the twilight, with the granite dust ground down from the 
rocks; and again, how deeply rich and red was the earth where 
plowed, the laud his forefathers had lived on so long. Then never 
had any* other country such hedgerows, such banks and lanes, so 
great and deep, so massed Mith holly and broom, and wildly luxuri- 
ant with all twining, twisting plants, that curl their tendrils with 
the sun or contrariwise; such a paradise of ferns, or such an English 
wild garden of flowers, from the Lent-lilies opening the season, with 
their yellow bells shaking music soundless to our grosser ears in tho 
mad March wind, to the great summer army that followed, and the 
last of the laggards of autumn. 

Blyth’s heart gave a leap in his body for pure gladness when first 
he saw the Chad a^ain; and then he hurried on taster than before, 
wdiile it came foaming and singing and tumbling along the road be- 
side him. As each well-known landmark came in sight, his eyes 
grew dim often enough, and his heart felt very soft, while his throat 
foolishly swelled. And, as among much w^e love, one object is still 
singled out specially, so even while Blyth watched for the first sight 
of the Red House chimne3’’S above the oak-trees, and often wond(‘re(l 
how his old father might be, and whether he was yet halejlind w'ell, 
still trul3’- the most secret fires and deepest tenderness of his feelings 
were reserved for the image of one other w'ell beloved— w^ere urging 
his well-nigh jaded body on with fresh efforts to see her dear self 
face to face again. / 

He remembered a 3'oung, slight girl, half-child still, with flying 
feet and lissom, still unformed figure, whose dark eyes were flash- 
ing with merry mischief, or opened wide in pure deep innocence. 
What would Joy be like? how wmuld she meet him? and where — 

He was near home now. He came up the lane with beating heart, 
and surely, surely there was a shadowy figure gleaming pale at the 
gate. Who was it? Was it— could it be she? 


102 


JOY. 


Mead while Joy, straining her eyesight at the handsome stranger 
in tlie darkened light, watched and wondered too. 

Blyth approached, then stopped short, and, taking ofl: his broad 
hat while he bent iorward to see the maiden closer, asked, 

“ AVill you have the kindness to tell me does Farmer Berrington 
live here now at the Red House Farm?” 

“ Blyth!" screamed Joy the instant he had spoken, and held out 
her two hands to him across the gate. 

He caught and pressed them hard, and so, approaching close, the5’’ 
looked at each other, quite near a tew moments, in utterly aston- 
ished breathless silence. 

Joy saw betoie her no raw, fair-haired lad such as he who had 
gone from them, but a finely-made man, with a handsome, open 
face, and who carried himselt with an upright, steadfast sir, as one 
who knows he is of some worth in the world, but assumes neither 
more nor less. 

And he? He had never thought Joy could have grown so beauti- 
ful 1 Her eyes, full of dark liquid light, flashed a welcome in which 
surprise was lost in great gladness. They were the same e 3 ''es he re- 
membered well ever since Dick had first lifted her as a little child out 
of the wagon at their gate; but otherwise all her features seemed to 
him not changed but glorified. He had loved her ever since she was 
a little rose-bud child; when he left she had been like the young 
flower only beginning to unfold its beauty; but now she was 

“ A rose’in June’s most honeyed heat, 

A red-mouthed rose, that woman of the flowers.” 

More by token she wmre a full-blown red rose in her bosom, which 
she rivaled in glorious beaut}'^ and sw^eetness. 

So he looked at her a few moments, not speaking. The hush of 
the hour was around them, the night-scents of the flowers in the gar- 
den was fragrant on the air; and from the long lush-grass of the 
meadows, still standing in their summer pride, came the hoarse 
cr-a-ik, cr-a-ik of the landrails, the night-watchmen of birds. 

Then, with all these sights and sounds and scents around him he 
Had known since boyhood, Blyth found his voice again. He cried, 
hardly knowing what he said, only conscious of glad surprise, 

“ Why, Joy, you are a woman!” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

^ “ The larks are loud above our leagues of whin. 

Now the sun’s perfume fills their glorious gold 
With odor like the color; all the wold 
Is only light and song and wind wherein 
These twain are blest in one with shining din.” 

SWINBURXE. 

Joy and Blyth were up on the moors a morning or two later. Be- 
fore theiii lay a long, sloping hill-side j^ellow with gorse, sweet of 
scent, alive with music of gladness; for, as old Dunbar sings, 

‘‘The skies rang with shouting of the larks.” 

They rambled where their feet had so often strayed together as 
children; tor Blyth said he felt as if he could not look enough upon 


JOY. 


103 


all the old spots he loved, nor take his fill of the strong, sweet moor- 
air again into his lungs. 

How young and happy and handsome they both were, wandering 
over the heather and bracken! The sun looked down with a great 
shining eye of love upon them out of a deep blue sky, swept clear of 
clouds by the high breeze. The lintwhites and stone-chats whirred 
in and out of the furze before them, playing courtship; the browm 
bees droned heavily by, honey-laden from the heather, working for 
their home and hive. All things around in earth and sky seemed 
only to speak of love and gladness and mirth. They were in the 
heyday of their youth and beauty, and the gorse was in bloom when 
“ kissing is in favor.'’ 

At last, after a quicK hour’s stretch up the hills, which tried their 
breath, good walker thougif Joy was, and because Blyth had been 
so long pent up on ship-board, they sat down on the hill-side to rest. 
And then it was little wonder, as Joy sat on a fiat stone, like a 
young princess of the moors in her proud beauty, that Blyth 
stretched himself at her feet in silent worship; and while he let his 
gaze rest on her now and again by stealth, felt sweet and secret 
thoughts creep about his heart. 

Her hair, that waved in strong, glossy ripples back from her 
pretty ears, was black as Tvere the ravens yonder up at the tor, with 
blue lights in the sun, such as none of the soft-complexioned, 
brown-haired maidens round could equal. The sunny, laughing 
face, with its clear olive tint and glorious, dark-red glow of health, 
showed, too, such a gleam of snowy teeth between her lips! which 
last were like 

“ Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower.” 

And her eyes were dark suns, lighted up with frank affection for all 
the world, yet holding depths of untried love for some. Joy was 
nol by nature a deep-thinking girl, or given to learning, or with craft 
or ambition in the least degree. Yet neither was she light or shal- 
low, nor even simple — a woman to love and be loved, caring deeply 
but lor few, may be, but for those with all her heart and soul, be- 
sides her duty to her Makei ; blending passionate, earthly feeling with 
religious devotion. A woman who could tend and toil and moil for 
husband and children to her last breath, and still be happy, having 
them. 

All the while, walking, Blyth had only talked of Australia— by 
fits and starts interrupting himself to exclaim on the home-sights 
round him. He spoke m answer to Joy’s repeated and rather per- 
tinacious questions, and answered her about the climate, and that 
his uncle had been kind to him; so that he was sorry when the old 
man died, though it left himself free to come home alter settling 
what business remained. But, though thus talking, it was curious 
how little he told! He never said it the dead man had been rich or 
poor, or had left himself aught. Joy little heeded; she kept to the 
subject because it was so safe. She was quite sure Blyth w^ould 
hold back no secrets from her. But when they sat, neither spoke 
much for a time; for indeed Joy was rather silent for a woman, and 
her eyes often said more than her tongue. 


104 


JOY. 


t 


At last Blyth said, softly, ^ 

“ Joy, do you remember, one August ev^ening, a little while be- 
fore 1 went away, nearly three years ago, we were coming over 
Black-tor there, and found some white heather? 1 have the sprig 
you gave me still.” 

Joy, surprised, blushed a little as he deliberately drew a leathern 
pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and showed her, carefully 
wrapped therein in paper’ a small brown sprig. 

‘•It— it has nearly crumbled away,” she said, suddenly embar- 
' rassed. 

“ Yes,” answ^ered Blyth. He did not wish to hurry her, so add- 
ed, in a musing way, “ Don’t you think you might give me a fresh 
flower, now^” 

Joy looked at the young whortleberries that grew thick and pale- 
green underfoot, and then around, where only golden gorse met her 
gaze; and that she could not give because of its meaning. 

“ Wait. There are flowers of all sorts at home in the garden,” 
she said, laughing under her breath at him. ” Wall-flowers, and — 
and bachelor’s buttons and lavender.” 

She had thought of prettier flow^ers even in the haste of her an- 
swer: pansies— but their oUier name was jump up-and-kiss-me — and 
rosemary — but that meant remembrance; while forget-me-uots must 
not be thought of. 

“ Yes, and there are hen-and-chicken daisies and rose- peonies and 
— and monk’s-hood and snap dragon. I wonder you do not offer 
them too, Joy,” said the young giant at her feet, rather angrily. 

But his heart was so soft toward her that love extinguished anger, 
and he added, in gentle reproach, 

“ 1 should have liked a red rose, such as the one you wore the 
other night in your breast when 1 came.” 

“ Oh, 1 nearly always wear them; our red roses blow best. Per- 
haps — but 1 do not promise,” answered Joy, still smiling in her 
glorious fresh beauty above him, and keeping her light air. 

“ Joy, will you come back with me past Raven’s-tor, and down to 
see the holed stone— again?” 

“ But, Blyth, you forget; the sheep that the father wished you to 
see are on the other side of the valley.” 

A little silence. Y’^oung Berrington, strong, handsome, and 

- traveled as he was, began to feel as if he was getting no further in 
his love-making. Nevertheless, the fresh west wind blowing on his 
face brought a sense of elation and briskness of spirit in its breath. 
And all the earth was full of secret strivings, budding, and burst- 
ing to sure success in blossom and fruit, which makes spring the sea- 
son of hope. Lying there on the heather hills owned by his father, 
seeing with lazy, half-closed eyes their own flocks of sheep, all baa- 
ing and springing and browsing around, with a large red B on their 
fat flanks; and further on all their grazing cattle in the valley; and 
the meadows with the milch-kine near the brown, stout farmstead 
•walls just to be descried in the distance — seeing all this, 1 say, such 
a sense of solidity and well-being brought comfort into Blyth’s soul, 

- that with Joy, his dear little iflayfellow of old, and sweetheart now, 
beside hiiii, he could not believe it possible he should lose her any 
more than these. 


JOY. 


105 

So, plucking np courage, he beat about the bush no more, but 
went manfully straight to the point, though with some awkward- 
ness of voice and inward hesitation. 

“1 have not yet spoken to you, Joy, about the question I asked 
you when 1 w’eiit aw^ay, two years and a half ago— whether you 
would be my wife. But since I have been at home these two days 
there has been so much to see on the farm; and my father and Han- 
nah always beside us, to hear any such talk; and I feared it w^ould 
seem too soon, too — ” 

“ Yes, Blytli; it would have been too soon.” 

” Maybe. But to-day it came upon me you might think my mind 
had changed,” pursued Blyth, keeping to his point as steadily and 
straight as he had often driven Dogberry and Dewberry, their last 
farm bred pair of horses, through the heaviest furrow^s of the low 
wheatfields when holding the plow. ” I do not want to harry you, 
nay, nor hurry you either, dear, God forbid! Y^ou are under the 
shelter of my father’s roof; and, rather than vex you by presuming; 
on that situation, 1 would go back to Australia, ay, for a year, till 
you had decided in your own heart; or — for always!” 

The blood had come into Bl3dh’s cheeks, and a clear ring to his 
voice now, as he faced his owm words. He had scarcely meant to say 
this last; and yet, now he had said it, he believed it w^as right, and 
meant to stick to it. 

” No, no, no!” cried Joy, warm and quick, all her lightness gone, 
and speaking with her whole loving woman’s soul. ” Y^ou are too 
generous, Blyth. It is 1 who must leave the farm if we — disagree 
about this matter. I am not your father’s daughter, dearly as 1 love 
him. You are his son; and he is an old man.’^ 

” AYhy should we disagree?” Blyth went on, sturdily, almost 
stolidly. ” Y^ou are so fond of my father and the Bed Ilouae, and 
we have been fast comrades ever since the evening j-mu came as a 
little girl in our wagon; and 1 loved you at first sight then, as I do> 
now. Why?— but have there been others while I was aw'ay? Ted 
me, Joy, Tiam there been others V 

His tone changed, with the last turn in his thoughts, to one of al- 
most stern insistance. Vexed with him, Joy cried back, in frank, 
and saucy petulance, 

” Others! yes; half a score of admirers. Do you think, sir, thak 
no eyes but your own should like to look at me?” 

” To admire you is one thing, and is quite natural; but wdiat I 
want to know is this: do others, or does some whom perhaps 
you like— seek to marry youV' 

Blyth spoke heavily, only wishing to learn how far matters had 
gone. For if this girl, his dear little playfellow of old, was unhappy, 
he must help her, at whatever cost to himself. But her hasty wom- 
an’s mind overshot his meaning, like an arrow sped by one of toO' 
fearful a heart, yet no coward, rather one imagining and daring the 
worst. 

” 1 thank you, Blyth Berrington. Y^ou are worldly wise. Han- 
nah taught me as much long ago, though, in an old Scotch song of 
hers; so 1 am not at all offended.” 


1.6 


JOY. 


Upon wliicli Joy raised her voice, and sent it thrilling clearly over 
the turzy lea, singing, 

“ Be a lassie ne’ei' sae black, 

Gin she ha’e the penny siller; 

Set her up on Tintock tap. 

The wind will blaw a gudeman till her. 

“ Be a lassie e’er sae fair. 

An’ she want the penny siller, 

A hie may fell her i’ the air. 

Before a man be even’d till her.” 

She sung with a merry, mocking lilt, as if not caring a straw. Yet 
however quick to take fire, and brave to scorn her own pain, Joy 
was still more guileless in all things, and her lip trembled. Blyth 
saw it, slow of perception as she thought him. 

“I don’t like your Scotch words, nor their meaning,” replied he, 
with gathering warmth, fixing his blue eyes full upon hp, and rous- 
ing like a sleepy young lion, who shakes himself and rises from his 
couch. ” Your song is folly to an honest man, as satire often enough 
is. Here am 1, tor one, no better, 1 fear, than most men, unless 
they are fools or rogues or liars. Yet 1 w’^ould hold myself more 
luckj'^ to get you for my wife, with only the gowm on your back, 
than another girl wiio owmedall the forest of the moors and the low- 
lands that run for twenty miles down to the sea. There!” 

“You are a good man, Blyth Berrington,” breathed Joy, with 
heaving breast, and breath that quickly came and went. “But 
there is more to say. Could you hold up your head, pi’oud as you 
are that the Berriugtons have been honest people for generations, if 
the other farmers "round knew that you had married a coimicVs 
ddughterf” 

Her eyes shot a gleam like a sw^ordflsh, accompanying the swift 
thrust of her words. She thought to herself, “ By this I will try 
him.” 

Blyth never flinched from her gaze, but, standing straight and 
strong on the hillside before her, raised his open hand tow’ard the 
sky in grandly simple attestation of his wmrds. 

“ As there is a heaven above us, 1 swear that I would marry you 
if your father, grandfather, and every man ancestor of your family 
each swung on a gibbet on every tor round the moors!” Then re- 
suming his ordinary quiet manner he came near, and said, tenderl}’’, 
“ Darling, is that all?” 

“ No,” whispered Joy, so moved she could hardly speak. “ There 
is — did you know — my poor mad mother dowm there in the cot- 
tage?” 

“ Yes; 1 guessed it long ago. My father told me as much as he 
could, without breaking faith, three years ago, and Hannah let out 
more, as women will. Poor child! does that thought distress you 
so much?” and Blyth dropped on his knees beside her, the better to 
give her comfort. “ Dear JejM she w’as driven crazy by an unhappy 
mairiage, and her temper was not one to bear such troubles well, I 
have gathered. But if kindness can. soothe her declining davs, let 
me help—” *' 

“ Ah, how do 1 know that she will have me, Blyth? 1 owe her 
all duty because she is unhappy; but still she has her reason betw’een- 


JOY. 107 

whiles, and will talk io me often, poor soul, of leaving the moors, 
and of her ambition for me.’’ 

“ Her ambitioiad and what is that?” 

“ She wishj],^ me to marry a ricli man — a gentleman.” 

_Blyth gently drew back a little, and an odd smile, small of its 
kind, sal a moment on his lips. 

As to Joy, the moment she had spoken, looking at him, a glow of 
crimson so spread in a shamed tide froni her beating heart over her 
^iheeks that_ahe hid her face in her hands and wept. Her soul bad 
melted within her, thinking how the friend and comrade of her 
whole young life had spoken to hei', and how she had answered him. 
Besides, she could not look at hifn, for he seemed a new man. What 
was this feeling? 

Had she not always kjiOwn that Blyth had a noble head, and hair 
as yellow as a wheat*fleld, and eyes as blue as the far, tar sea one 
could just see from the top of tlie highest tor; and that he was 
straight and tall and stalwart as any young oak down in the wooded 
country. But never before had it come to her to wonder how it 
would be if, for the last time, she saw those eyes turned up to hers 
in honest, dumb beseeching — to go away and never see Blyth or the 
Red House nigh again. 

And yet others (Sieenie Hawkrhaw for one) were handsome too, 
and admired her, and — Oh, it is hard for a girl to know what is best 
sometimes, as also wbat she trul}'- wishes! 

“Don’t cry, dear; don’t,” said Blyth, pained. Then he spoke 
with a sort of sorrowful wonder, liis voice seeming strange, yet as 
familiar to her as the scent of the gorse, or the larks’ songs and the 
sun shining; she knew its tones so well, though the words were 
new. “ But, Joy darling — surely you love me a little?” 

“ I do like you very much, Blyth,” she answered, with quick 
breath. “ Indeed 1 have always loved you as a brother, and do so 
still. But whether 1 care for you more, this is the whole truth — / 
don't know ! See here, this is what 1 fear, that you and 1 have 
grown up so used to being together, as we are used to the Red House, 
and seeing the Chad flow by, and the heather grow in the hills, that 
we ma}'^ mistake this feeling of habit and true liking tor the highest 
passion of which oiir hearts are capable. Then, if we found out our 
7nistake loo late, we should be miserable. When you went away, 1 
was still almost a child, too’” 

“ That is true. But 1 was a man in heart, and have come to know 
my own mind as fixed, while far away.” 

“ There has not been time tor me since you came back to know 
mine; and, besides, 1 hardly know you for the same again,” mur- 
mured Joy. “ Give me time, Blyth — a long time.” 

“ Would a month be too short for you, Joy? To me it means 
four long weeks, and 1 have now been here three days too.” 

“ A month — let it be at least midsummer’s eve. That is only a 
tew days more,” she pleaded. 

“ Well, let it be as you wish, dear. Meanwhile, at least tell me 
this, that 3 ’’Ou are tree. If my chance is as good as another’s, 1 will 
not yield to any man. But if not — if not — you must trust me indeed 
as a brother. And— 1— will swear to help you.” 


JOY. 


108 

He spoke slowly and sighed. Joy did not mistake his slowness 
now. 

“1 am quite free; oh, yes,” she said, low and clear. “Thank 
you from my heart all the same. Come, dinner will be waiting, 
Bljdh- let us go home.” 

CHAPTER XXXll. 

“ Of all the torments, all the cares, 

With which our lives are curst, 

Of all the plagues a lover bears. 

Sure rivals are the worst. 

By partners in each other kind. 

Afflictions easier grow, 

In love alone we hate to find 
Companions of our woe.”— Walsh. 

That same afternoon, after he had been on the moor with Joy, 
Blyth sought out Hannah in the wash-house, hoping for a few pri- 
vate words. But the good soul was almost invisible from the steam 
of hot water rising out of the great tubs aiound, while piles of wet 
clothes surrounded her like the thick clouds over, which angels 
peeped their heads and shoulders in the larmer’s old family Bible. 
Mistress Hannah was scolding, w^asbing, and vigorously directing 
two farm women who were wringing out the linen — all in a breath. 
As she turned a hoi red face of inquiry to Blyth, and wiped her fore- 
head, he felt it was not the time or place for love-confidences. 

“ It is Saturday evening, Hannah,” he said in her ear, with a sig* 
nificant look; “ so you had better let me carry the basket to the 
Logan-stone, now I am home again. It is too heavy tor you, after 
all this hard work.” 

“ “Well, as to its being too heavy, there is no labor I would call 
loo great for tlioae ones. I’ve done it these three years, nigh since 
)mu went away, and the master had to give it up when his legs 
failed. Still, it’s a good offer, and I’m obliged— and this week’s 
wash is heavier by ordinar’ with all your clothes torbye the reH. 
Besides, it’s safe enough, for only Miss Rachel ever comes for the 
basket, and if .you walk oft directly she’ll not see you.” 

“ Quite so, quite so,” responded Blyth, turning on his heel with 
alacrity, and with pleasure in his heart. “ Then tnat’s settled, Han- 
nah, I’ll take it.” 

He distinctly meant to seek a private interview with Rachel Es- 
tonia, and plead his cause and gain her aid, if possible; and now he 
knew how to do this without rousing Magdalen’s quick suspicions. 

When the evening fell, it was the custom at the Red House after 
supper for old Berrington to sit in the porch, with his pipe and 
some beer comfortably placed beside him on a small table. Joy, 
meanwhile, might be straying near him in the garden, tying up 
pinks, or otherwise tending the flowers, or taking a stroll down the 
lane. Each one enjoyed his or her ease after their own fashion. 
And Hannah, for her part, reigning over the back premises, gen- 
erally inhaled the cool of the air in the poultry-yard outside the 
kitchen. Here Blyth found her on this especial evening, sitting in 
state on an inverted bucket, while a crowded court of scratching, 
clucking hens and their broods surrounded her, little dreaming she 


JOY. 109 

mused how many should find early deaths and grace the pot, or go 
to market. 

“ Here is your basket ready— a batch of bread of my own mak- 
ing, and Miss Joy’s butter, some eggs, and a little bit ot flesh -meat 
(they don’t eat as much as a spairow’s Friday dinner). It’s heavy 
enough,” Hannah said, hardly looking up, still counting her 
chickens. 

” 1 wish they would take the loan of a cow from us, and graze it 
up the glen. Goat’s milk is not fit for them,” observed Blyth, with- 
out yet touching the burden that awaited him. 

‘‘ Ay, pride’s an ill horse to ride; and, for my own part, 1 never 
found plenty a plague,” sententiously returned Hannah. “1 was 
thinking just now that next year I’ll rear more young game-hens. 
Their eggs are delicater, and your father likes them, forbye that 
those at the cottage up yonder will eat them when they care for no 
other.” (Hannah always used vague terms when speaking of the 
sisters at Cold-home. They had not wished to be known as ladies, 
and wondered at; so in her respect she was troubled to find any 
suitable phrases.) 

‘‘ Hannah, 1 wonder how we should get on without you,” said 
the youufi: man, suddenly. "You would not like to leave the Red 
House either, and turn out now, after making yourself and us com- 
fortable for so long; would you?” 

Hannah gave a jump on her bucket, and turned almost pale. Her 
biff person was so visibly moved she quaked like a jelly 

” What do you mean, Blyth? 1 ask pardon, Mister Blyth?” she 
asked, her voice quavering; adding with sinking heart the correct 
form of words so long disused in her mouth, “If so be that 1 have 
not given satisfaction—” 

Blyth kindly stooped and patted her shoulder. 

“You good old goose! It’s nothing of that kind; but can’t you 
guess mj’’ meaning? If Miss Joy ”• — here he lowered his voice — 
“ if she were to like other places and people better than the Red 
House and us — why, you would go away with her, too, 1 suppose?” 

“Oh, 1 see; yes— that’s it. Y'ou took away my breath very 
nearly,” gasped Hannah, trying to recover the shock of this new 
^ view of possibilities, But her puzzled mind refused to grasp the 
j change of ideas as to her future, and she could only utter^in feeble 
protest, “ But 1 thought that you and she — at least, you seemed 
made for each other from you were children. And the master— he 
was by w^ay of telling me you were courting her only this blessed 
morning. Besides, there’s no man after her to compare with your- 
self in these parts; unless to some folks’ minds that young Steenie 
Hawkshaw.” 

“ Ah — Hawkshaw? And does he come often, Hannah?” 

“ More often than will allows him,” returned the old woman, 
emphatically. “He may have a handsome face, still there’s an 
empty head behind it, and a poor heart below it. But there! 1 
spoke up for you while you were far away; for, thinks 1 it’s a poor 
hen that can’t scrape for one chicken, and Miss Joy has only me to 
look after her. But now you’re back, and you’re not the man I take 
you for if you need an old wife’s help in courting.” 


110 


JOY. 


Her mother wants her to marry a gentleman, Hannah. And 
they say, Steenie llawkshaw calls himself one now.” 

” A gentlemen? Oh, Lord, drat his impudence! I’ve known too 
much of that sort of gentleman in my life,” replied Hannah, with a 
snort of indignation, 

” You would prefer an honest farmer like me. Well, 1 am glad 
to have you on my side, Hannah,” smiled Blyth, adding, in a 
slightly scornful tone, “ And if becoming a gentleman depends on a 
fair stock of grandfathers, or a smattering of learning, or even a 
longer purse than one’s neighbors, why, who knows but 1 might 
hold my own with my rival 3'et?” 

” It’s not all that,” sobbed Hannah, fairly overcome now. “ It’s 
ilie airs that does it! Your mother was a lady, if only a governess; 
and his was a gypsy, they say, and not rightly married either. But 
no matter; it’s always airs as gets folks on in this w'orld, and he’s 
got the best of them.” 

” Well, good-night, Hannah; 1 must be going.” 

Young Berrington caught up the heav}'' basket like a feather- 
weight and trudged off. He was secretly well pleased with the 
probable result of his own wiliness, and thought gayly enough, 
“ All is fair in love or war.” 

The night was falling when he parted from Hannah in the Red 
House fpwl-yard. The darkness^had deepened when he found him- 
self waiting behind the Logan-stone. He listened, it seemed for a 
long time, but heard nothing of human presence— only a night-jar’s 
cry, or the short, fine squeak of the bats flitting around like winged 
mice, or perhaps a cry, as mournful as that of a lost child, which 
came from the white owls who lived up in the wood, and were now 
hunting their prey of “ rats, mice, and such small deer ” in noise- 
less flight. At last he distinguished a light footstep coming stealing 
over the ground, halting in an uncertain way, then fitfully nearing 
him. It approached. 

“Miss Rachel!” said Blyth, stepping out from the black dark- 
ness of the big stone. 

There was a cry. He saw a white face one instant; the next, a 
black, slight figure went speeding away through the night like a 
scared shadow," and he knew he had frightened joy’s mother. 

“It is only Berrington— Bl^dh Berrington, he shouted, in his 
fresh, honest voice, to reassure her. 

But no answer came back, though he waited and listened long. 
And there lay the basket. Heartily vexed, and not knowing what 
was best, Blyth at last took up the cottage provisions again which 
he carried as far as the little porch of Cold-home, setting down his 
load with a sound thump, and clearing his throat with a resounding 
“ Hem!” before remarking aloud, “ i beg pardon — the basket!” 

Hs fancied a nervous wailing could be heard behind the cottage 
door, and soothing wdiispering sounds of answer. As he slowly 
retreated. Cold-home door opened, and by the lantern he could descry 
the sisters’ figures, both peeping after him. He halted and hesitated. 

“ Thank you, Blyth— t had lamed my foot with a thorn,” said 
Rachel’s clear voice, reaching him some yards away, though she 
seemed to speak low. “ Don’t wait.” 

Blyth Berrington took ofl his hat courteously, though they could 


JOY, 111 

hardly seQ the action. He went home in the darkness less gay than 
he had gone forth that night, feeling — toiled. 


CHAPTER XXXril. 

“ If we would love and lovSd be. 

In mind keep well these thiugis three, 

And sadly in thy breast imprent— 

Be secret, true, and patidnt I 
* * * )(! * 

“ Thus he that wants ane of these three, 

Ane lover glad may never be, 

, But aye in something discontent — 

Be secret, true, and patient!” — D unbar. 

They were very busy at Red House Faim with the moor-ponies 
These had been driven in from the hills into a stone-fenced pound, 
and then Blyth and his men chose out of those branded with George 
Berrington’s mark, all fitted for breaking-in for home use or for 
sale. The latter were now confined in a large lower yard, where 
they behaved much like school- boys when holidays are over and 
lessons not yet begun, alternately playing with, kicking, or biting 
each other. 

“ There is a beaut.y. Oh, 1 should like to have that one myself to 
ride,” Joy had cried, pointing out a jetty black pony, with never a 
white hair upon him. 

This was a handsome little animal, with short, thick fore-legs, a 
broad, intelligenl forehead, and prominent eyes; short in the back, 
and with strong hind-quarters. 

“ He is the pick of tlie basket,” quoth Blyth, looking at the little 
beast wdth sage deliberation. ” You are right, Joy; and you shall 
have him. 1 will train him for you myself.” 

Whereupon, he gave orders to Dick that no one but himself 
(Blyth) should touch or meddle with Blackberry, as Joy soon named 
her choice. All the Red House horses were called after berries of 
some sort. JJlackberry was to be the young mistress’s own pony, 
and required a careful education. Dick only put his tongue in his 
cheek, and at once resolved, like the obstinate old blockhead that he 
was, to have his finger, when possible, in this pie. 1 

This training of the moor pony is like unto the Firstly of the 
short discouise of this simple chapter. The Secondly concerns an 
incident of the sheep- washing on the farm. 

The Oha& had been partly dammed in the near meadow, at a spot 
where it ran shallow and sparkling, after having just made a wide 
pool, firm of footing, and not much deeper than would reach to a 
well grown man’s knee. Here, time out of mind, the Red House 
sheep had been washed; and here, once more, the cleansing of the 
flock began. But presently, while overlooking his men, young Ber- 
rington’s soul became sorely vexed within him. 

All the laboring men of those parts had most easy, if not laz}^ no- 
tions of what a day’s work might be. And while he, who had al- 
ways felt proud and glad of exerting his strength — and came indeed 
of a different race long ago than theirs— had brought back fresh 
vigor and ideas of energy from Australia, without doubt the farm- 


112 


JOY. 


work bad been growing more and more slack in bis absence. Old 
Faimer Berrington seemed to have lost heart while his handsome 
son was away. His weight of flesh was a heavy burden upon him. 
Because he suffered from gout and swellings of the legs, he could 
only move about slowly and not far; wherefore, his men behaved 
more and more as if they had all bad legs too. Dick was the w’^oist, 
being as nearly a rogue as an honest man can well be; also that 
often privilged plague, an old servant. 

So now, as the sun grew hot that day, so did Blyth’s inwaid 
wrath, as he from time to time urged on the easy-tempered laggards 
who washed the sheep, wdiile another man passed each animal down, 
and boys and sheep-dogs kept the flocks from straying. Meanwhile, 
Joy and- old Berrington looked on from beneath the shade of an oak- 
tree on the bank, and saw little amiss. 

“Isn’t it a pretty sight?” exclaimed Joy, rejoicing in the warm 
sunlight, the fresh, early green of the trees and grass, the shinini:: of 
the clear river above and below the pool, the pastoral scene, with all 
the w^oolly, gentle creatures crowded together, the mild baa-ings and 
barkings that tilled the air. 

“1 am quite sorry for the poor sheep in the river, they bleat as if 
they disliked the w^ater so much. But see, as each one is washed 
and set free out there in the meadow, how happy they are. It makes 
one think of souls passing through the river of death, and enjoying 
themselves w'hite and spotless in the happy fields of Paradise.” 

“ Well, now, that thought surpasses mine,” said old Berrington, 
admiringly. “ 1 had only thought this sheep- washing reminded me 
of the Baptists on a christening Sunday. I’ve seen them dip as 
many as forty in this very Chad, away dowm by Moortown, at Dip- 
pers’ Hole, they call the spot. There is a rock mid -stream w^here 
one man is placed lest any should drown, for the pool is deep enough 
to souse them over their heads and ears. 1 was mortal sorry for 
some of the poor maidens, who looked grieved over their Sunday 
finery all dripping. But the happy souls!— now that is a pleasant 
thought to dwell upon in one’s mind. Is it not so, Blyth? Eh, boy?” 

“Joy has alw^ays sweet and pleasant thoughts, sir, 1 think; and 
what is more, she gives them to those who only look at her,” said 
Blyth, looking up at the girl under the tree no less admiringly than 
his father had done, only — difierently. Or perhaps Joy thought so, 
for she gently murmured something about helping Hannah in the 
house, and flitted away in her pale cotton dress, like a spring butter- 
fly. When she had gone, Blyth could stand his dissatisfaction no 
longer. He had hitherto restrained himself, but now he called out 
in anger to the men that he could wash two sheep himself to every 
one of theirs, ay, and better! Their task at this rate wmuld not be 
over by sundown. The men paused and looked up at him. Dick 
slowly grinned and made reply: 

“ Well, young master, us don’t know as to that. Two to our one! 
he, he, he! Well, mebbe her had better try.” 

“ I will,” cried Blyth, his blood fired; so, pulling ofi; his coat and 
waistcoat, and rolling up his shirt-sleeves, he waded into the pooL 
and began his task in' thorough earnest, yet dealing gently with the 
dumb beasts. He had some ado to keep his word, for the men, of 


JOY. 


113 

course, at once brisked up, and, grumbling to each other in mur- 
murs, were apparently resolved to thwart him in so shaming them. 

“ One, two, three, four, five! Blyth had so far gained, and oid 
Berrington above on the bank saw fair play, and enjoyed the sport 
counting aloud for them. Presently a little lad called out that a 
man was riding up to the farm-house. 

“ It is young Steenie Hawkshaw,” said old Berrington, shading 
his eyes — for Blyth was too fiercely busy to look up. “ lie will have 
come to wish you a welcome home, Blyth, tor he was over here late- 
ly just before you returned. Will you not leave off now and go to 
see him?" 

“ No,” said Blyth, shortly, his face having hardened at the name. 
“ He may come to see me if he likes.” 

“Is it worth while to keep dogs and yet to bark one’s self, my 
son?” said the old man, in a low voice that only reached Blytli’s 
ears, who was nearest him. 

“ Yes, father, it is,” said Blyth, just pausing one moment to wipe 
the sweat from his brow, and going on again. “ It the dogs are 
watch-dogs and don't give warning, or sheep-dogs and won't guide, 
it is worth while to teach them their duty. Ihen if they won't learn 
get rid of them.” 

Teni fifteen! twenty! Blyth had still kept his word, working 
grim and silent, and the men, seeing that, had become half surly, 
half admiring. They were doing their best now, but he did better. 
Mortal man could not have worked harder; only that but a few 
sheep remained, he could not have held on at tliat rate much longer. 

Time was passing, and still young Hawkshaw tarried up at the 
Red House. Blyth was wrathful and jealous in heart, but, because 
of pride, would not stir a step to greet his possible guest. At last 
his old father announced, like a speaking watch-tower: 

“ Here they come— Joy and that fellow Steenie. Will you not 
come out of the water now, and gel your coat on? The young sprig 
is fine enough for a wedding.” 

Blyth raised his ej'^es, and saw a pair pacing softly down the 
meadow by the hedgerow side, with such a dainty, easy motion and 
mutually agreeable air that there and then he almost hated his rival, 
as if the latter were Agag, who came delicately; and if Blyth would 
not have altogether hewed him in pieces, yet he verily gnashed his 
teeth upon him in secret. 

“1 will not leave off till every sheep is washed — not for any 
man,'’ he said, desperately; temper and pride had kept him in a 
false position after hearing who the new-comer was. And now— 

“ What, Blyth, iw^you there?” cried Joy’s clear, flute-like voice, 
astonished from the bank. 

Gazing up as he held a struggling sheep in his strong grasp, his 
arms and massive throat bared, his yellow hair feeling damp upon 
his brow, Blyth, with naught cool about him but the fouled brown 
water in which he stood immersed, knew that the beautiful, dark- 
eyed girl above him must needs be contrasting himself as a lover 
with his rival at her side. Gazing through the level sunlight, Blyth 
saw that Steenie Hawkshaw was handsome, indeed, though with a 
devil -maj^-care, licentious look in his restless black eyes. He wore 


JOY. 


114 

a riding-coat and a new hat, and kept slapping his boots in a swag- 
gering, dandifted way with a hunting-whip. 

“Halloo! Berringion, my old triend Blyth; devilish glad to see 
you back! Hard at work already, eh?^ like— like the best laboring 
man among them all,” he cried, patronizingly, in answer to Blyth ’s 
gruft enough greeting (for they two had never been triends). 

Blyth held his peace, but there was a hoarse laugh among the men, 
and Dick allowed himself to make reply. 

“ Her is raight enough there. I tell ’ee thic, young Hawkshaw, 
not another man on the moor could do the laike. Her has beaten 
ussen— vairly.” 

A murmur of grim assent went up from the other men, which so 
heartened old Berrington that, with his face shining and ruddy, not 
unlike a setting sun, he explained the matter. 

“ Capital! excellent! You have come back still just as much a 
farmer as ever from Australia, 1 see,” cried the young man, nodding 
with a mostr irritating air of lightness, or so it seemed to Blyth. “I 
came to bid you welcome back especially, but ’faith the dairy, where 
I found Miss Haythorn, was so pleasant, and the garden too, that it 
was impossible to hurry. Indeed, we should only have disturber 
you, it seems, ha, ha!” 

“That was precisely why I did not hurry up to the house to meet 
you. I had no doubt you were both enjoying yourselves, or you 
would have come down to seek us sooner,” retorted, Blyth, with a 
fine air of careless, if not contemptuous, good-humor. 

Joy blushed rosy-red, and half cried, 

“ Indeed, Blyth, it was only—” then stopped herself. 

“ I tear I must be going soon,” said Steenie Hawkshaw. 

“ Not without something to eat! — nay, or at least to drink in my 
house,” put in old Berrington, liospitablj-. And pressing the point 
so as to overcome the young man’s slight and assumed unwilling- 
ness, the good farmer hobbled slowly, with help of his stick, to the 
Red House. 

“ I will be with you in a tew minutes,” called out Blyth. “ This 
is my last sheep.” 

He did not wish to go with them dripping like a Tvet dog, and all 
disordered in dress, as he was, for Joy to note still further contrasts. 

In a few minutes, once they were out of sight, he leaped on dry 
earth, and going up the Chad to where the river ran clear as crystal, 
there among some hawthorn bushes that made a hidden arbor he 
rapidly cleansed himself. Then feeling fresh and cool again, how- 
ever rough his toilet had been, Blyth hastened with long strides to- 
ward the Red House. 

He was late, however, for on entering the farm-yard, there w^as 
Steente Hawkshaw already mounted on a handsome, well-bred mare. 

At that moment old Dick, who had left the sheep just before 
Blyth, on pretext of his other farm-yard duties (in reality because he 
felt dry and wanted cider), passed by, leading the new pony, Black- 
berry. The old fellow believed Blyth still safely down by the river, 
so was disobeying orders, partly from love of contradiction, but also 
to spite Steenie Hawkshaw. If the latter did ride a fine hunter like 
the mare, at least he should see that the Red House bodsted a pony-- 
not to be matched on the moors. 


JOY. 


115 


The pony, that was still as wild as a hawk, came by snorting with 
excitement, straining at his halter, and showing ofl; at his best to 
Dick’s secret triumph. Suddenly, seeing the strange mare. Black- 
berry wheeled round and, with mannerless mischief, sent up his 
heels against her in a sound kick, just to show he hated in his tree 
heart all such well-trained servility. 

Steenie Hawkshaw uttered a big oath. He brought down his 
hunting-whip with a fuiious lash upon the pony's back, and in his 
rage might hav^e done so a second time, but that next moment Blyth 
intervened. He caught Blackberry by the head in an iron grip; for 
with some maddened plunges the pony was almost breaking loose 
from old Dick’s hold, .and was backing wildly toward the stable 
wall, against which Joy stood pressed, too frightened to stir — indeed, 
not knowing what side to hy to, as the startled animal dashed now 
here, now there. 

The girl put up her hands, as it to shield her face, and knew 
nothing for a tew seconds of confusion and outcries. Then came a 
hush around her. Opening her eyes, she now saw Blyth holding back 
the still struggling pony in a corner, and soothing it. His eyes were 
blazing, his rough farmer’s coattorn at the shoulders; for Black- 
berry had forced him back upon an iron hook in the wall, while 
Blyth himself was protecting Joy. On the other side, Bteenie Hawk- 
shaw, on his mare, which he had now succeeded in calming, ottered 
a still but striking contrast. He himself so spick and span, the mare 
well-groomed and wmll bred, though a trifle weedy, while Blyth and 
his, maddened pony looked like a struggling Centaur, rude and wild 
— so one were they, man and beast, in that fight. 

“Go to the house-door, Joy; go now, dear,’’ quietly called out 
Blyth, adding, between his teeth, “If you can’t keep your hand 
from striking, Hawkslmw, you might at least control your tongue.’’ 

“ 1 owe 5 mu no apology for that brute of yours nearly laming my 
mare,” retorted Steenie, hot and quick. “As to Miss Hay thorn, 
she will forgive me, I’ll answer for it, for a mere hasty word.” 

He was off his mare in a jiffy as he spoke, and with profuse mur- 
murs of penitence and comfort a^ter her fright, gallantl}^ led Joy, 
who had not yet stirred, to the shelter of the house. Then he took 
off his hat with a-deep bow, remounted, and rode away, with a fare- 
well nod to his rival, and an air of gay flourish. Blyth, meanwhile, 
looking on, dared not leave his wild charge, and was maddened 
with foolish wrath that Hawkshavz should have struck his lady-love’s 
property, and then have so impertinently ventured to console her. 
He told himself he was only angered lest Blackberry’s temper should 
be spoiled at the outset of training; but he did not believe himself. 

After soundly rating Dick— which relieved his mind a little — he 
went to see Joy. But Hannah, who ^vas in the kitchen, told him 
shortly enough he might spare his pains, for her young mistress had 
gone upstairs to her own room and was crying. 

“ Crying, is she?” returned BMh, aghast. “ VYhy—why— she 
was startled, no doubt; and yet she did not use to be so timid. Why, 
Hannah, what is the matter?” 

J'or the old nurse turned, and looked upon him with an eye of 
scorn. 

“ You are a fool, Blyth Berrington!” 


JOY. 


116 

“ Perhaps so, Hannah; but still it is not very civil to say so, for 
no one is as clever as they would like to be,” said Blyth, with grave 
satire. Then he saw the old woman’s eyes held tears, which she 
dashed av\ay with her knuckles. 

“ Why do you go and demean yourself, then, this day, into looking 
like any working man, just when Steenie llawkshaw comes here as tine 
as a jay? It’s enough to vex any girl who may be trying— not that 
I know— to make up her mind. And when one is as tond of your 
father and you and the farm as any woman can* be, it’s heart-break- 
ing to see you spoil your chances! — oh, go away out of my kitchen, 
now^ do! The biead is burning in the oven — 1 smell it.” 

On which Mistress Hannah flung open the oven and banged it to 
again, and whisked all available kitchen utensils out of her path so 
energetically that Blyth knew no more would be got from her then, 
so slowly, sadly took himself awa}^ He scarcely saw Joy that even- 
ing, who pleaded a headache. How fallen was he from his first 
jojTulness of home-coming! All things seemed to go amiss with 
him. 

Poor Blyth! 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ The dance o’ last Whit-Monday exceeded all before, 

No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; 

But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh but she was gay ! 

She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.” 

W. Alcingham. 

It was a summer night of hospitality and merry-making at the 
Red House. 

Old Farmer Berrington had invited all his neighbors and friends 
round — ay! as far as Moortown — to rejoice with him over his son’s 
return. The parlors were full of guests. A great supper-table just 
now groaned with food, which had cost Hannah a week’s cooking; 
ale had frothed, cider flowed, jaws had wagged busily on the part 
of the elders, while the young folk let their tongues and laughter 
loose. And now the good cheer had been cleared away, and danc- 
ing had begun. 

Joy had adorned the house with flowers and wreaths till the doors 
seemed bowers, and dressed herself to seem more distractingly pretty 
than ever in the young men’s eyes. Many a whisper told her so; 
many a glance or sigh" But among all her suitors, she recked little 
of what any thought of her excepting Blyth Berrington and Steenie > 
Hawkshaw. These two rivals strove hard against each other for 
her favor, urged her to dance, and, while beating all the rest from 
the field, yet would neither give way an inch. Joy’s eyes were flash- 
ing! her cheeks flushing, and pulses beating, for love seemed to 
breathe round her like the sweet smoke of incense, making her rea- 
son giddy, and admiration was offered her as in a brimming cup, of 
which she might drink deep. 

Every maiden in life almost has her hour of triumph. This was 
Joy’s. 

To-night she w’ould surely make up her mind which of these two 
she could Jove liest and like to live with all her life. . As yet she did 
not know— and to-morrow was midsummer’s eve! 


JOY. 


117 

Blyth 'was so strong and handsome, and had been so good to her 
for years. But again Stenie Hawkshaw was handsome too, witii a 
reputed dash of deviltry in his behavior that was no disfavor in 
women’s eyes; was looked on as a young squire, and the best match 
in the country. She did not know! She held back her love perforce 
as yet till her mind decided, feeling that then her soul’s whole force 
and passion would rush forth to be poured in happy libation at the 
^ feet of her master, never to be taken back. 

i But as yet she was queen of herself, though this night must de- 
I cide. 

' “Neighbor Berrington,’’ uttered old Hawkshaw, patronizingly, 
“ this is the finest supper 1 have ever sat down to in these parts in 
any farmer’s house. I say so — 1 declare it is! — you mav be proud 
of it!“ 

“ 'Well, well, if the fatted calf was rightly killed for the return of 
the prodigal son, one may as well do as much when the best son God 
ever gave comes home safe with his blessing,’’ said George Ber* 
rington, solemnly enough, yet slowly smiling and puffing out a cloud 
of smoke. For the eldeis had retired to finish their ale and cider at 
leisure in the big kitchen, while the young people were footing it 
merrily in one parlor, and the matrons gossiped and watched in the 
other. 

Meanwhile no one looked outside, at the hills, the moor, and sky, 
while in-doors was so much feasting and revelry. Yet, being farm- 
ing folk all, who live depending more on the influences and changes 
of earth and sk}^ than othei men, had they done so there would per- 
haps had been an uneasy hush among them, witU the meadows all 
lull of tall grass ready for cutting, and the tender crops green in the 
fields. It had been a dull yet gentle-seeming afternoon; yet within^ 
the last hour had come a orooding, ominous quiet in the air, while' 
the sky lowered with a heavy glooming, and animals, seeming fright- 
ened, either roosted still or had crept away to shelter. 

Presently it grew very dark; a few drops of rain fell; then sud- 
denly— with a moan down the valley, and a sound in the air as if of 
mighty spirits’ wings rushing by — came the wind! There was a 
silence even among the young folk, who gazed at each other almost 
awe-struck. 

! “ What is it?— a storm f— why, who heard it coming?’’ they cried* 

^ But — as in the middle of questions and answeis the open doois 
were furiously slammed, and the windows, which had been set 
wide for air, banged wildly to and fro— there was too hurried a 
running in the house to set all straight, for answers. Tlitn the old 
folk, peering out at the trees that were bending and swaying before 
the fury of the blast, shook their heads and ominously recalled to 
each other what a “ griat wind’’ this or that one remembered in 
such a year and the damage thereby done. All were anxious enough 
to be at their own homes to see what mischief might be happening; 
but, as old Berrington declared, “ what was quickly come would 
be quickly gone — and only mad folk would start out in such 
weather.’’ 

So they all piously'" agreed to trust in Providence watching over 
their barn roofs, seeing themselves could not do so; and they settled 


JOY. 


118 

down to the cider and ale again with great resolution to make the 
best ot the matter. 

On a whisper from Blyth, who liimselt slipped outside, Joy like- 
wise led oft the dance once more. In a few minutes afterward no 
one in the Red House seemed much heeding the storm. 

Blyth was busied outside putting things sate in the tarni-yaid, 
meantime, for a quarter of an hour. The last of a winter rick of 
hay was caught up and whirled spirally aloft before his very eyes, 
seeming scattered among the tops of the oak-trees. He could not 
save it, and was glad enough to hold fast by a fence. 

“ Talk of cyclones in the tropics! this is one, sure enough; and 1 
have now seen several,” he said to himself. 

He went back to the kitchen door, and was just entering tire house 
when he heard a gasping cry in his ear, as of some one who had lost 
all breath, and felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he saw Rachel 
Estonia in her long black gown, her face looking deadly white under 
her hood. 

” Help me! Magdalen has escapexl from the cottage — a little while 
ago! It was in one of her attacks. It never happened before,” 
she uttered, with difficulty. ” My sister broke away from me and 
got out in the storm. 1 have tracked her so far, but 1 am lame. ” 

Blyth knew she had hurt her foot. 

” 1 will come— let me only tell Joy.” 

“ Yes, yes! Tell her to come too; say that her mother may be 
lost or drowned. Follow me.” 

And without further pause Rachel limped away in the storm. 
Blyth dashed into the Red House. He came into the parlor by a 
little passage door leading from the kitchen, and caught Joy just as 
she was beginning a new dance with Steenie Hawkshaw. 

“ Jo}", stop! stop! 1 w^ant to speak with you.” 

” It was 3 "our dance, 1 know, but as you forgot it, and kept me 
waiting so long, 1 am going to dance it with Mr. Hawkshaw,” pouted 
Joy, giving him an unspeakable flash of her luminous eyes, then 
scornfully turning away in the pride of her fresh young beauty. 

Steen ie gave one glance of smiling disdain at his rival, which at 
any other time would have maddened Blyth’s veins, and he put his 
arm round Joy’s trim waist. But Blyth caught her arm hard, grasp- 
ing her soft flesh almost fiercely indeed, as he raised his voice above 
the twanging of the fiddles close by. 

“ I don’t care about the dance, but 1 must speak to you. 1 have 
a message — your mother!’' 

Low as were the last two words in her ear, Joy heard, and disen- 
gaging herself from Steenie with a quick gestuie, bidding him wait, 
stood beside Blyth alone in the passage in a moment. 

” What is it? It must be bad for you to speak of her at such a 
lime,” she said, quite pale. 

” it is. She had one of — of her fits ” (he could not frame it bet- 
ter, “ and she has escaped.” 

Then he hastily e.xplained matters. 

” Oh, quick!— come quickly, Blyth. We must go and search for 
her. Will you come with me? You wdll; won’t you? But no 
matter!— you can stay with your guests, and amuse yourself; 1 can 
go alone.” 


JOY. 


119 


Thus cried Joy in the heat of some loolish feeling against Blyth 
she could not have described. And yet ^\iiat had 'he done amiss, 
poor fellow, but not come to claim her last dance? and that now he 
stood still, as if thinking one moment — no more. 

“ Where do you want to go? and, if you want any one, I am here. 
Miss Haythorn,” said Steenie Hawkshaw at her elbow that instant. 

“ Yes, yes; come. Oh, it is a poor soul out in this storm; lost 
perhaps — and wandering on the moor,” 

“ But who is it? And why should you go?” cried the young 
man. 

“Nevermind. Y'ou are not wanted, Hawkshaw. I am going; 
and that will be enough, without any more help,” roughly inter- 
posed Blyth. 

But Joy, with a little cry from her inner spirit that just reached 
their ears, was out and away into the storm as she was, in her thin 
dress of gay- flowered cotton. Hawkshaw, partly to oppose Blytn, 
partly from being really enamored that mght. tiished alter her with- 
out his hat, Blyth saw them both go, but himself strode back into 
the house. 

As it was midsummer, though night had almost come during the 
dancing, yet it was not dark over the earth, even though the storm 
had brought with it a lowering ot the already gray, overcast sky. 
On such June nights there is alwa5''S a glimmer of light— even at the 
darkest, before dawn; so that as Jo}’’ sped onw'ard down the lane — 
thinking of nothing, knowing nothing beyond that Rachel and her 
mother wanted her— she could still see tier way, and some distance 
ahead. 

The storm was terrible. It roared around her as if the element was 
all alive with anger and malice from its skirts, that still troubled 
the hills behind, to where its fore-front blew, in wild spiral curves 
ahead, scattering ruin and fear on its path, unroofing houses, break- 
ing down chimneys, and even walls, tearing up trees. The bushes 
bent like whip-cord before the blast; the trees on either side the banks 
of the lane ached, groaned and swaj^ed as In mortal pain. 

Joy felt herself tom along as a thing of naught, her human force 
availing nothing against this vast, senseless power which no appeal 
could touch. She seemed to be in a gray, wdiirling world, where 
nothing was firm but the ground under her flying feet. The very 
stars seemed to reel and swim in the rack of gray cloud overhead. 
She was so fleet of foot that in a few minutes she was far down the 
lane., and had already begun to think she was alone, to be sadly 
frightened, not for herself, but for her mothei— her mother! Oh, 
that poor, distracted soul! What if they found her! ^len 

might help— but wdrere loere they? She was alone! What was that 
ahead?— a spot of blackness upon a path crossing the flat of gray, 
open meadows. It was struggling forward with difficulty; Rachel 
Estonia without doubt. 

Joy saw her Aunt Rachel was in danger of being blown down, and 
shouted her loudest to give promise of help. Oh, where were Blyth 
and Steenie? How had they the heart to desert her? 

“ Hullo, wmit a bit— 1 am here!” called Haw^kshaw, now coming 
up behind her. “ 1 missed you coming out of the gate, and took 
the wrong turning. Y'ou run so fast! — but, 1 say, what does it 


120 


JOY. 


matter (o you who is lost to-niglil? Do come home; this is sheer 
madness. ' ’ 

“ No, no, no!” she only replied, running on. 

” Here am I, too, Joy,” said Blyth’s voice, at her other side. “ 1 
have brought you a cloak. 1 waited to bring it, and some other 
things— which might be necessary. And, Hawkshaw, here is a hat.” 

Both would have thanked him, doubtless, but at this instant there 
was a strange sound just a yard before them. A great elm was 
swaying and straining before the blast, which had caught its head, 
as if wishing to lift it to heaven by the forelock. It creaked, it » 
groaned. Both men instinctively sprung back, pulling Joy with 
them, whose knees quaked. Little wonder! for the next instant, 
with a loud crash, down came the great tree that had known the 
storms of a hundred years blow over it unmoved, and fell prone 
across the lane, low in its mightiness, its torn, twisted roots up- 
turned toward the sky. Another few steps nearer and its spreading 
branches might have caught, and, if so, must have killed them. 

One second or so all three paused, and while Joy trembled, thank- 
ing Heaven in heart for their preservation, even the two men felt 
that death had been very near them. 

” Come on — come on,” said Blyth; then wrapping a cloak round 
Joy as he drew her forward, ‘‘You are safer out of this; and there 
is Miss Rachel ahead.” 

“ Y^es, yes; let us huny,” she acceded; and they clambered over 
the fallen tree, even while Hawkshaw cried, 

‘ ‘ What ! one of the wibht sisters ? Surely you are not mad enough 
to trouble yourself about what happens to them, and on such a 
night?” 

‘‘ Be quiet!” uttered Joy, in a choked voice. ‘‘ You do not know 
how good — how dear — they have been to me.” 

And B]3dh replied in his deep voice, from the other side, 

‘‘ If it were only a sheep or a heifer in danger jmu wmuld save it, 
as w ould any man. How much more a w'oman — and a helpless 
soul besides.” 

Now they were beside Rachel Estonia, whose breath had almost 
gone. She felt as if she would have died there in the held, but that 
Blyth held her up till they came to the shelter of a hedge, wdien 
luckily the storm lulled somewhat. 

‘‘ Magdalen is in front — 1 saw her. She had stopped for shelter, 
but when she saw me she ran on and on by this path.” 

‘‘ To the black country!” cried Joy, aghast; for so, with inbom 
love of beauty in nature, she had named the wild and boggy part ot 
tlie moors, which sheJiated. 

” To the old bridge over the Blackabrook!” exclaimed both men 
at the same moment; and Hawkshaw added, ‘‘ She’ll never cross it 
alive. But is she wrong in her head? What is the matter?” 

Blyth saw Joy’s young face wrung with pain, as she bent it before 
the wind and put up her cloak as if to hide it; and the horror in 
Rachel’s eyes, though she held up her brave dark lace and never 
flinched as they liurried on. He wdiispered a few' words of explana- 
tion in Steenie‘s ear, w'ho, though still hardly understanding why 
they should be running madly through the storm and night after one 
of the witches from Cold-home Cottage, yet became silent, looking 


JOY. 


121 


often sideways atEacliel, whom he had never seen near before, with 
a growing feeling that this strange woman was unlike any one he 
had ever hitherto met; and of a diflerent class, too, surely— though 
what he knew not. 

It was two miles to the old bridge, yet very soon, almost without 
a word spoken, the}” found themselves nearing it. llachel’s toot, 
which had been lamed by a thorn latel3% was swollen to agony now. 
None knew how intensely she was suffering, though they heard her 
labored breath coming in great sobs. Bl^dh, supporting her on his 
strong arm, almost carried her on; but though once or twice he 
entreated her to stop and rest, while he should hurry forward and 
certainly find her sister, she only shook her head and redoubled her 
efforts. 

“ No; Magdalen would be frightened at any one but me.” 

Meanwhile Steenie was taking charge of Joy as if she were his 
own propert3\ He drew her cloak constantl}'^ about her when the 
wind blew it back ; whispered to her ; kept close by her. Bly th saw 
it all— but it was no time to take heed of that. 

Once or twice Joy fancied she saw — Rachel certainly saw, with 
her marvelous keen eye-sight— a something flitting mysteriously 
ahead, like h spirit of the storm. As the path wound round the hills 
this lorm disappeared behind corners, or was hidden by rocks and 
bushes ahead. Both felt as if lining in a nightmare— an evil dream. 
It seemed such a terrible eldritch tiling to be out in such a storm, 
pursuing a barefooted, ligiitl^^-clad creature over the hills; a mother— 
a sister— who with frenzied brain was flying from those who loved 
her best. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ The fit's upon me now ! 

Come quickly, gentle lady: 

The fit’s upon me now !” 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

The path sloped steeply to the bed of the Blackabrook, which, 
only flecked with sullen loam at a few deep eddies, flowed dark and 
turbid from its parent morass among the most gloomy and savage 
•, hills on the moors. Below, an early British bridge, of which some 
’ few still remain thereabouts, spanned the stream. Huge piers of 
blocks piled flat upon each other, without mortar, had been placed, 
it seemed by giants, in the current, across which four far greater 
slabs of granite were laid in succession, hour only, without hand- 
rail, made this C3^clopean bridge; and the wind was howling down 
the valley, and the water flowing black and deep. 

Across the river were old, deserted tin mine workings in the 
dreary hill-side. Where was Magdalen? They could not see her 
as they gazed down. 

” A ghost— look, look, by the cross!” cried out Hawkshaw, sud- 
denly, pointing above the path on which they stood, being now half- 
way down its steepest and narrowest part. 

An old granite cross, of which many W'ere scattered over the 
moors, was overhead in the heather, outlined against the sky; and 
by it a white figure was making wild and frantic gestures, peeping 


JOY. 


- 122 

from behind the cross, flitting round it by starts like a child at play, 
■waving both arms on high, cowering down, 

Seeing itself perceived, as they stood still consulting below, a wild 
shriek of laughter rang in their ears. Then springing forward to 
the verge, Magdalen caught hold of a large loose stone that was piled 
among others in a “ clatter,” and exerting all her strength hurled 
it down upon Bl.yth Berrington, who stood a little apart from the 
others. The big stone in its descent struck violently on a lower, 
projecting rock, and so, bounding off, passed over Blyth’s head, 
though so close, all thought him killed for an instant. 

Joy gave a scream of terror, and rushing to her old playfellow’s 
side, regardless of more danger, threw her arms about his neck. 
Bacliel "called out, in piteous entreaty, 

‘ ‘ Magdalen ! Magdalen !— it is I ! Hear me ; let me come to you, ’ ’ . 
and was even already climbing up perilously to the cross. 

But only a maniac shriek came back in answer on the wind, for 
Magdalen was flitting down from crag to bowlder like one of the 
pixies still feared on the moor, and meant to reach the old bridge 
before them. She leaped down, and fled on and on where no path 
was, through heather and bracken, a white, weird form,,seemiug a 
spirit, or, it human, a possessed being. 

“ Let me go, dearest,” said Blyth, low and very gently, as he 
looked in Joy’s horrified dark eyes. “ I must pi event her from 
crossing the bridge — there is not a hair of my head hurt.” 

He himself unbound the imprisoning arms he loved so dearly, and 
would have kissed Joy’s hands but that Steenie Ilawkshaw glowered 
at him behind, with hate and anger in his face. Then Blytn darted 
down the path to the river, the others following him. 

When the latter reached the banks, however, they saw he was too 
late. Magdalen was already half-way over the terrible bridge. 
Through the gray night they could see her long, fair hair blown out 
on the"^ wind, that howled and swept down the blackness of the 
valley. Her little bare feet tottered pitifully over the narrow fpot- 
wa.y; her arms were spread out, as if seeking a hold or safety wliere 
none was; and her body seemed to cower and quiver, they fancied, 
even at that distance, either from cold in her light night-gear or 
with fear. For the Blackabrook was rushing close beneath her 
tierce and deep, with a sound of evil joy as it swished round 
the rude, stone-piled piers, as it telling how greedily, how quickly, 
it would suck in this Amman’s poor, frail body, and whirl her down 
in its course — drowned ! 

Biyth stood still at the near side of the bridge. He had his coat 
off, and was watching. 

” I dare not follow yet, lest she Should be frightened, and fall in. 

If that does happen, 1 will try to save her — you will find brandy in 
that pocket, if it should be wanted,” he said, in an ordinary quiet 
voice, to Joy and Rachel. 

Then, as both women marveled at his self-possession, he added, 

” She is almost over now; almost — quite safe. Is it not like see- 
ing a wraith crossing over the Styx? Ah! loJiat is that?"' 

Blyth bad supposed safety too soon. AVith a wail of terror Mag- 
dalen started back, even as her feet almost touched the opposite 


JOY. 


123 

shore of the dark, wild land of shadows beyond, which seemed to 
promise freedom to her hunted body and throbbing, distracted brain. 

Out of the darkness, under the hill rising from the river steeply, 
she now descried a herd of horned heads blocking her way, moving, 
tossing, transfixing her with curious animal eyes. A iroop of half- 
wild cattle had been sheltering, huddled under the lee of the bank, 
and attracted by the strange spectacle of a white object, were now 
shuffling each other, and crowding round the bridge end and down 
to the water. Looking back despairingly, and seeing the group of 
persons at the other end, Ihrough the dim twilight not recognizing 
friends, Magdalen’s overtasked powers gave way. She stopped 
short, turned giddy, then threw up her arms and fell fainting on 
the rough granite bridge with a low cry. Her body swayed side- 
ways in the fall, so that her head and the upper part of her person 
overhung the water, and, being dragged downward by its own 
•weight, they saw her gradually slipping over into the stream. 

Joy screamed! and was then only conscious that she was fast held 
and struggling in strong arms. Her Aunt Rachel was holding her 
back by force to prevent the girl throwing herself into the water. 
She saw Blyth and Steenie rush forward — 

The two men rescued Magdalen. Blyth it was who first jumped 
into the black swirling water, almost as soon as he saw the white 
body slip over before his eyes. But though a strong swimmer he 
might hardly have sated the helpless woman and himself without 
Hawkshaw’s aid, who, wading out to where Blyth and his burden 
were swept against a rock, helped both to land. They carried Mag- 
dalen’s senseless and dripping white figure back over the old bridge 
to where Rachel and Joy waited them. Luckily there was a shep- 
herd’s cottage near belonging to Farmer Berrington, where Blyth’s 
authority induced the startled shepherd’s wife to let the poor creat- 
ure be put in her bed and tended by Rachel and Joy. But Blyth 
started to return to the Red House as fast as he could, and bring 
back the spring-cart; for Rachel, seeing the sufferer was regaining 
consciousness, though still terribly exhausted with her mad chase, 
was anxious she should come to full recovery with only the familiar 
objects of the cottage round her, resisting Blyth’s most urgent en- 
treaties to take her to the Red House. 

Will you come with me, Hawkshaw?” then asked young Ber- - 
rington. 

But Steenie hesitated, and made a sullen answer. He had run 
enough to-night after a crazy woman, and thought he would now 
take the cross- road leading homeward. Blyth might tell his old fa- 
ther to pick him up with the gig half-way at the “ Black Bull.” 

“As you please,” said Blyth, hesitating too; then, overcoming 
dislike of his rival’s manner, added, generously, “ 1 am heartily 
obliged to you, anyhow, for coming into the Blackabiook after us. 

It was cold work— shake hands.” 

Hawkshaw shook hands. Then, when Blyth Berrington strode 
out of the hut, the other went to the door of the inner room, and 
softly called Joy. The girl came out, looking still flushed and be- 
wildered. 


124 


JOY. 


“1 am going — good-by!’^ be said, looking closely at her with a 
searching expression. 

“ Good-by; and God bless you for your help to-night,” she said, 
gently, still feeling as in a dream. 

“ Is that ail the thanks you have for me, after running such a 
fool’s race, besides wading up to my waist in the Blackabrook this 
beautiful summer’s night?’' iSteenie said, sarcastically. “ You near 
enough kissed Berrlngton without his asking just now, for doing no 
more,” 

Joy drew back, and her eyes blazed at him. 

“ How dare you?” 

“ 1 do dare. What is more, as 1 have courted you before all the 
other girls in the country, 1 think i have a right to know what this 
mad witch we have been hunting to-night is to you that you should 
be crying over her and kissing her, when we brought her out of the 
river. It is too much, Joy — 1 can’t -stand any more of tliat.” 

“ It is not too much, sir. She is my mother!” 

“ Your mother !" 

Steenie Hawkshaw made two steps back, staring, then gave a low 
whistle, and slowly uttered, 

“ And I who had meant to ask jmu to-night to be my wife! 1 
thank you. Miss Hay thorn, for undeceiving me in time,” 

His face, voice, and the manner in which he now bent his head 
low in mock respect, were so insulting and sarcastic that Joy felt 
her little hands clinch, while her figure seemed to grow taller and 
swell with pride and just indignation. Tl'lie words rushed to her 
lips, “You would have asked me in vain!” But truth restrained 
them. An hour ago — one little hour! — would it indeed have been tn 
vain? She raised her hand imperiously, and pointed to the door — 
Steenie Hawkshaw ’s eyes feasting even then with coarse enjoyment, 
yet vindictiveness, on her beauty. 

“Go!” she said; no more. 

And he weiit. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“ I think the sky calls living none but three : 

•The God that looketh thence and thee and me ; 

And He made us, but we made Love to be.” 

Morris. 

Midsummer eve. What a warm, what a soft, what a sweet night 
it was! 

A day of wild, driving rain was over, and at evening the sun had 
burst out for a last hour of glorious, reviving beauty. And now, at 
night, the moon looked down on the fair landscape of the Chad val- 
ley, which seemed steeped in a haze steaming up in incense from the 
grateful earth, exhaling in fragrance from the flowers — the honey- 
suckle and carnations — that had kept their sweetness pent in all day. 
The lush-grass, so lately bent low, was raising its green banners im- 
perceptibly once more; the shaken flower-blossoms, the heavily wet- 
laden leaves felt free again; and the nightingales were singing pas- 
sionately down in the hawUiorn brake by the running river, which 
sung, too, in a low, full gurgle. And across the river was the moon, 


JOY. 


125 

rising over the opposite hills, just touching with its beams the soft- 
ened outlines ot trees and bushes on which the dew gleamed like a 
woolly, shining pall. There was not a harsh outline, not a discord- 
ant note or sound that night in the whole world — the world of these 
two people. 

Blyth and Joy stood together in the dusk in the shelter of the linn- 
hay, where it was dry underfoot. The ground in front was carpeted 
white with torn petals from a tall rowan-tree, whose blossoms over- 
head were even now sending out their strong scent on the night air. 
Close by, a wicket-gate led into the farm garden, where a thousand 
other sweets mingled with those of the wilder trees and bushes that 
loved the open moors. In-tront ot the pleasant shed, with its moor- 
stone posts and thatched and lichened roof, the meadow sloped gen- 
tly to the river. Such was the scene, the little world that held these 
two, who asked nothing beyond. 

Joy was standing with her head on Blyth’s breast. His arms were 
round her. It seemed to both that the climax of their lives had 
come, the highest point at which they seemed nearest heaven. 

“Oh! Blyth, Blyth,” murmured the girl; “oh, dear Blyth, I 
must have loved you best all the time! I did love you best always. 
I must have been dull, stupid, blind, indeed, not to have known it 
the first moment I saw your face again.” 

Blyth drew her-still closer to himself, and did not speak, because 
his lips were laid on hers, that were soft and sweet as the leaves of a 
rose. At last he said, 

“Dear, be glad you had not such heartache as I had these last 
three years while I was away.” 

And in the pauses ot their sentences they could hear the night- 
ingales singing of a gladness that was almost pain; of a pain that 
was the ecstasy of passion over-filling the beings too small, too poor, 
too earthly, to express rightly such supreme rapture. 

“ Blyth,” said the girl, softly, “ I cannot help thinking, what will 
my mother say? She was so ambitious, poor soul, forme. Oh! 
why can one never feel pure joy?” 

“ Earth might be too like heaven, perhaps; w'e could not resign 
ourselves to leaving it,” said Blyth. Then he gave a silent laugh 
that shook his body, not unlike his father; and Joy wondered what 
this meant till he said, “ Eorgive me, darling, for not having told 
you something sooner that may please — your mother. To you it will 
make no difference. See here, you know that as regards old family 
there is not a squire all round the moors whose land has been owned 
as many hundred years, from father to son, as ours. But though 
we are only simple farmers, for all that, still I have come back a rich 
man from Australia; even very rich compared with those around 
us.” 

“ Blythi is it true? And you never told me! — but there, say noth- 
ing; I am glad you did not. You know novv I could not love you 
better or feel more proud ot 3mu if you owned all the moors round 
down to the sea.” 

“Ido know it, my love. I always trusted you to be true and 
honest, whether I was rich or poor; but, if you had known it, so 
might others, and it was best \’ou should not be influenced.” 

(Ilad Blyth been so sure always as now that gold has no weight 


JOY. 


126 

in woman’s mind? Well, he believed so; sordid Joy. Ah! happy, 
happy souls, they did right to believe the best of themselves; it helps 
us all to do the best.) 

“ You mean my mother. Yes,” said Joy, thoughtfully. “But 
oh, Blyth, think of Aunt Rachel; how happy she will be! I wonder 
what they are saying now.” 

I CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“ Non, I’avenir n’est k personne ! \ 

Sire I I’avenir est a Dieu? 

A chaque fois qne I’lieui’e sonne, 

Tout ici-bas nous dit adieu ! 

L’avenirl I’avenir! mystare!” 

Victor Hugo. 

What were the two sisters in the brown thatched cottage saying 
to each other at the same hour that night, even while the lovers stood 
in the dusk together? 

Magdalen was crouching by the embers ot a low fire, for, though 
the night was so warm and still, she shivered; and yet again she 
said she needed air, so the door was set ajar into the porch. The 
' nightingales were singing even more loudly up here in the glen, 
making the heart ot one ot the two sisters ache with an old pain. 
The lantern burned as ever ot nights in the window-sill, with the red 
curtain drawn behind it. 

Magdalen, strangely, on recovering consciousness atter tiie terrible 
adventures ot the night of the storm, seemed, though weak, to have 
come to her full senses again, hut to have utterly forgotten what 
had passed. Sometimes she would look with a sort of musing won- 
der at her wounded feet and the scratches on her arms— seem sur- 
prised at her own great exhaustion of body. But she never said a 
word of the matter, nor did Rachel. 

Now Magdalen, as she rocked herself to and fro, crooning the 
words of an old ballad, broke off impatiently, and said, 

“Rachel! Are you listening? I wonder why I feel so restless? 
All this spring I have felt as I never did before — as if I were always 
waiting, wailing. First it seemed to be tor Joy to leave school at 
last ; but that point passed, it goes on and on within me all the same. 
Do you hear?” 

Then came a low sigh from the dark figure, knifing, with un- 
wearying mechanical fingem, in the dull red gloom. 

“ Dear, I always hear you— I always listen.” 

“ Then tell me what it means,” went on the plaintive voice, with 
a dissatisfied sound of longing, like a wail in the words. 

“ When will the end come, and what will it be after this weary 
waiting and wailing? Do you think ” (speaking low) “ iCmeans that 
this is waiting to see Mm — that he will come some day? I have al- 
ways felt that we should see him again, you and I.” 

Rachel shuddered, and telt as it a staJ) had just been given to her 
heart, but controlled herself and kept silent. 

“ He will think me taded and withered,” went on the poor selt- 
tormented soul. “ Rachel, you are handsome still. It is not fair! 
For, after all, I was far prettier than you as a girl, andY am so very 


JOY. 


m 

little older. If he did come back, he would still care most for you. 
Oh, it is dreadfully wrong still — after all these years!” 

“ But think of Joy— think of your own young daughter, dear 
Magdalen. Surely any father, seeing her so lovely, would love you 
it he did come,’ ■ 

(Ah! poor Kachel, how troubled was that if! She was such a 
strong woman, both in mind and body, and her years since tJien had 
been so still and unchangetul, it seemed as if what had once grown 
in her heart would never quite die, so as to be forgotten and clean 
out of sight. No, as a dead tree still stands to tell of what has been, 
so was it w'ith this memory in her heart.) 

“ He woald love you best — he must! for her sake and your own, 
too,” repeated, unfalteringly, the lips that trembled unseen of her 
who had been, unwittingly, her beloved sister’s rival. 

” Love me! And of what good would that be now, so late, ex- 
cept to revenge myself? Yes!— yes, I should like that. Kevenge is 
what I want still. Besides,” added poor Magdalen, musingly, ” it 
he came and asked me to go back into the world and society again, 
it might not suit me just now, with Joy likely to be well established 
in life. One grows used even to this hermit’s existence and our 
crusts of bread in the wilderness; and when she is married to young 
Hawkshaw, and living >t the Barton, 1 should like to be near, of 
course.” 

Rachel became sick at heart; for the fear had been pressing upon 
her all this day that now, perhaps, they must indeed perforce leave 
the glen and hills and the shelter of the poor moor cottage. Ever 
since the night of the storm, all the guests who had been eujo3dng 
the hospitalities of the Red House Farm must know why Bljdh Ber- 
rington and Joy had left the dance in such haste, and the news 
would have spread of the night-chase after the mad woman. Then 
the village children would "know of it, and come up to beck and 
point at the sill}^ woman at Cold home; perhaps call out foolish, 
jeering words she might hear. For since the days of Elisha the 
prophet, so out of the mouths of ill-taught babes and sucklings such 
words of evil, soiling innocent lips, will be heard. 

” After all, Joy maj^ not marry young Stephen Hawkshaw. She 
may prefer my favorite, Blyth Berrington.” 

“ He is not so rich — the other is called a squire; and Joy has gen- 
tle blood in her veins.” 

” So has Bl3dh Berrington — on his mother’s side, at least; while 
the Berringtons have done yeomen’s service since the. days of Athel- 
stan. Steenie Hawkshaw’s mother was a gypsy, they say, and his 
father is a drunken churl. Oh, my dear sister, the money at the 
Barton may flee away as on wings, but young Blyth has a heart of 
gold, and he adores our child.” 

” No man is really good, Rachel ; or not good as women are. Per- 
haps the best among them may think of God before themselves. 
But women come alwa3^s last in their thoughts, believe me. Men 
will say otherwise; but it is not the woman, but their ‘own love for 
her they think much of. Besides, how should Joy be happy? Are 
not the sins of the fathers visited on the children?” 


There was a silence in the cottage for some time. The lantern 


128 


JOY. 


ijlimmered red, the embers glowed ; out-of-doors one could hear the 
Chad running in the dusk; and still the nightingales sang. 

A long, long silence. 

Then a cautious but heavy step outside was distinctly audible in 
the small porch. There was a pause as of some one listening; next 
the door was little by little opened wider, and a man’^s figure stood 
in the door-way, bent forward in a crouching attitude. Both 
women felt their hearts beating hard with terror to suffocation; for 
even in that uncertain twilight their eyes had recognized the coarse 
canvas dress, cropped head, and striped stockings of a convict es- 
caped from the great prison over the moors. By long habit each 
drew her hood far over her face; then Rachel, nerving herself, drew 
back the red curtain sharply, and snatching up the lantern on the 
window-sill, turned it full on the intruder’s face. 

It was Gaspard da Silva / 


CHAPTER XXXVIll. 

“Woman’s love is hard to kill. 

Lopp’d or felled there sprouteth still 
Some small shoots of tender green, 

To remember what has been !" 

“ Madre de Dios!” muttered the convict, starting back at the 
flash of the lantern and at sight of the nun-like, dark figures which, 
hitherto, in the twilight of the room, his eyes had not been able to 
distinguish. “ Are these little sisters of charity?” 

There was perfect silence for a few moments in the cottage; then, 
recovering himself, Gaspard asked, in a rough, threatening voice, 

” Is there a man in this house?” 

Magdalen half raised herself from her couch, trying to shriek out, 
” Yes, several men. They will come soon; they will protect us.” 
But her lips could not utter a word, though they moved; and it was 
Rachel’s low voice that replied, 

“No.” 

” Who are you both, then? Speak — are you dumb?” 

Slowly came the answer. Rachel waiting for her sister, who still 
did not or could not speak; trembling and wondering if he would 
not recognize them. 

” We are sisters. We live alone— and we try to serve God.” 

” Then you can serve Him by serving me now,” said the convict, 
with an air of greater assurance at t)nce, and a sound like an effort 
at a laugh. ‘‘ 1 want some food— food. 1 have been starving all 
day and last night. Give me something to eat quickly, 1 tell you, 
or it will be tne worse for you both.” 

At the hoarse, horrible tone as of a desperate man, Magdalen cow- 
ered down closer on her bench, and hid her head among her cush- 
ions, seeming in a faint state. But Rachel hastily obeyed, and took 
out all the eatables in their scanty cupboard— little enough, except- 
ing a loaf of home-made bread from the farm and some cheese. 
Gaspard did not wait till she had placed the food on the table, but 
snatching some from her hands began to devour it, tearing at it with 
his teeth like a famished wolf. Presently he dropped heavily on 


JOY. 129 

wooden chair she had silently placed for him, and taking up a 
knife and fork, ate on now more like a numan being. 

Rachel, watching him, felt the horror and repulsion that had first 
filled her heart change little by little to divine pity. Under those 
coarsened, degraded features, where the brute alone was now visi- 
ble, and the soul seemed reduced to some faint spark within, almost 
overpowered, she yet recognized the traces of the former handsome 
Da Silva— the man of brilliant powers, who then had admiration, 
even awe-struck reverence, tor all that was good and holy, but 
whose star seemed evil from his birth; ever unlucky, poor, noble, 
ambitious, and overmastered by his own violent passions. 

When he had partly finished, Gaspard looked up and said, 

“ 1 was hiding this -evening up there on the hills among the 
heather and stones, for 1 saw two peasants coming and I was afraid. 
They met each other, and pointed down here at the light, speaKing 
■of two witches that had lived in this cottage, and how one sister had 
gone mad last week and no one dared come near them. That is she, 

1 suppose?” He nodded with brutal carelessness over toward Mag- 
dalen, who visibly shook, whether from rage or more sorrowful emo- 
tions. 

Then, as no one answered, taking silence for consent, he added, 

“ Ah — so it is so. Yes; I thought to myself that is the house for 
me! Mephistopheles among the witches, ho, ho!” His laugh, that 
resounded strangely witnin the bare-Avalls, had no ring of mirth in 
it. He still ate on till quite satisfied; next, looking up suddenly, 
said, “ Now I am dead tired and am going to sleep; but you two 
must watch, for 1 may b^ tracked here. 1 have escaped from prison, 
and by G — d 1 mean to stay free this time or die. If either of you 
betray me, see here, I will cut your throats first, 1 swear, and then 
my own. ’ ’ 

He held up the knife with which he had just finished eating his 
bread and cheese— an old table-knife, sharpened to a point by long 
use— and with an air of bravado, yet something of former grace lin- 
gering in his mock politeness, bowed to the silent w^omen, then 
stuck the weapon in his w^aist-belt. 

Rachel could hardly restrain herself from speech. Her heart was • 
full to bursting, her pulses beating like hammers in her temples 
with the pity, the agony of it all; her ears were already straining 
lest they might indeed hear the footsteps of those coming to drag 
this unhappy wretch back to the jail that was a living death. Words 
were rushing to her very lips I She longed to fling back her hood 
and cry out, ' 

“ Rest, poor hunted soul! You know usi— w^e, the women who 
loved you, forgive all the past; we will watch over you. No blind 
chance, but a divine guidance, has led you to us here at last. Only 
repent, repent, and God will forgive you as we do.” 

But looking past Gaspard da Silva, as Rachel stood motionless like 
a dark statue, all her emotions hidden under her draperies, she saw 
that Magdalen had started, hall raised from her crouching posture, 
with a wild glitter in her blue eyes at her husband’s threat of mur- 
der. Her pale features twitched in an agony of fear as she laid her 
finger on her lips with a gestuie imploring caution; then drawing 
her hood forward, that had fallen back in her fright, she sank down 


/ 


again unseen by Da Silva, whose back was turned to her. At that 
Rachel’s words ot consolation find revealing utterance stood still like 
a swift river arrested. Magdalen was a wife; this was her husband. 
M'ho (laie speak, if she w'ould not have it so? 

“ You are quite safe; do not fear. You may trust us,” she mur- 
mured, almost soundlessly, her voice being almost unrecognizable 
to herself. 

Then she pointed toward the inner room, of which the door stood 
ajar, showing the truckle-bed on which the sisters were accustomed 
to sleep together. 

“We two will sit up by the fire and guard you,” she added, in her 
faiMt breath, like the wind rustling through dry leaves, for she was 
hoarse from emotion. 

The convict paused with a slight awakening of curiosity. Till 
now his mind had only been full of the instinct of self-preservation- 
his chances of escape, his hunger and thirst and fears. But already 
freedom was beginning to revive insetisibly old influences and 
habits, and he said, 

” You are not a common peasant woman. Let me see your face,” 

But Rachel held her hood more tightly drawn down than before 
with her strong hand. 

“lam not young nor handsome now. ISTo one in this country 
round has seen our faces these many years. We have taken you in, 
and will take care ot you; but — ” Her faint tones died away. 

” Some vow, I suppose. Who would have guessed religion played 
such pranks in this howling English wilderness?” carelessly muttered 
the Spaniard; adding louder, “ Well, 1 can see you are telling truth, 
for that sister, for one, has gray hair.” 

With a harsh laugh he pointed toward Magdalen, whom he had 
turned to see, and one of whose long coils of hair had fallen loose 
on her shoulders. Rachel looked also; and for the first time seemed 
truly to perceive and know that her sister’s luxuriant fair hair, she 
had so often admired, had slowly changed — that now it was gray ! 
Magdalen’s form shivered slightly about the shoulders and chest, 
whether from passion or suppressed sobs the other did not know. 

But Gaspard went into the next room, and, not even pausing to 
kick off his heavy boots, flung himself on the bed, begrimed as he 
was with bog mud and damp moss-stains, after his wanderings and 
concealment all night and day on the moors. And soon the weary 
wretch was fast asleep. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ How strange it is to wake 

And watch while others sleep, 

Till sight and hearing ache 
For objects that may keep 
The awful inner sense 
Unroused, lest it should mark 
The life that haunts the emptiness 
And horror of the dark.”— Patmore. 

That terrible night the long hours passed almost silently for the 
two sisters. They sat close together, as for protection, over the low 
fire which Rachel fed at times to keep up vital warmth in Magda- 
len. 


JOY. 


131 


At first they had spoken together in whispers, but only saying 
what both knew — that Gaspard was a convict ; that he was in hourly 
danger ot being recaptured, and being sentenced to worse penal 
servitude; that it was terrible! 

“ Will you not tell him who you are before he goes?” asked 
Rachel, wiih an effort, 

“ 1 do not know yet. Don’t torment me, Rachel — let me think. 
He might only know of Joy to ruin her marriage or ask blackmail 
of her all her young life. Besides, aS he called me mad and gray, 
he might admire you still!'’ 

This last was said with such intense bitterness that Rachel bent 
her head on her two hands, and felt as if unable to bear it. Was 
nothing sufficient to atone then, in Magdalen’s e 3 ^es, for the wrong 
so innocently done? Not the sacrifice of Rachel’s life, the love and 
self-denial of every hour during days and weeks that had grown to 
long, long years? 

Then she felt, after a few moments of this worst anguish of soul, 
a soft pressure of Magdalen’s body leaned close against herself, an 
arm passed caressingly round her neck, and her sister’s head laid 
upon her shoulder. 

” Oh, Rachel, forgive me; you know I don’t mean it,” said the 
poor creature. “ 1 am only mad when 1 say these things, so you 
needn’t mind me, if ever 1 get to heaven as 1 hope now, it will be 
your work, for without you 1 should have gone quite deranged these 
dreadful years, and so been ruined body and soul ; because then I 
could never have repented of all my own old sins. But 1 have been 
better lately, have 1 not?” 

Rachel said, tenderly, 

” Yes, dear. T don’t mind.” 

tier heart melted with affection as she looked down at the worn, 
delicate face beside her; at the hair still curling so prettily as it cs 
caped from Magdalen’s hood, and in which, whatever Gaspard had 
said, fair streaks still mingled with the gray. 

Rachel said truly that now she did not mind; for such a caress is 
enough to gain forgiveness from any woman who loves truly. 

And after this both sisters had remained long, long silent. Inside 
the other room the heavy breathing told them that Gaspard still 
slept. At last Magdalen sal upright, and said in a whisper, as if she 
could bear some suppressed wish no longer, 

” 1 must see him again. I want to be quite sure what he looks 
like now. Do not come, Rachel; I want to go by myself.” 

Lighting a tallow candle, which she shaded carefully with one 
hand, Magdalen stole on tiptoe into the sleeping chamber. She 
stayed a long time, or what seemed so to Rachel, left alone with all 
her nerves strung to highest tension. 

Magdalen was his wife. She had a right to go, but still— He 
was sleeping, tor the -heavy breathing could be heard through the 
open door; yet who knew that he might not awaken any moment? 

But slill—5w^:6'i!^7^• -this was not thevagm; fear pressing <m Rachel, 
growing each moment to such heavier weight, she too could bear the 
suspense no longer; and, springing up in her turn, she followed her 
sister into the next room. 

Only just in time — ! 


JOY, 


132 

Magdalen was standing, bending over the bed, her eyes fixed on 
the sleeper’s upturned face and exposed, brawny neck with a strange, 
self -horrified, yet magnetized expression. She held the light partly 
concealed behind herself with one hand; but the other, which had 
evidently withdrawn the knife from Gaspard’s waistbelt, was slowly 
stealing toward him, while grasping the weapon with twitching fin- 
gers. Rachel saw it all in a glance, and said, softly, in her ear, 

“ Remember Joy ! He is her father!” 

Magdalen started so violenily that she trembled all over, and she 
gazed helplessly in Rachel’s face, as if imploring mutely that she 
might not bo accused of meaning ill. 

” Come away, dear; come back with me,” murmured Rachel, low, 
taking the knife and light from those nerveless fingers, and leading 
her sister back into the cottage-kitchen. 

Once there, Magdalen cunk down in a violent fit of smothered 
weeping, which Rachel did not atternpt to check, believing it would 
best relieve her brain. • She was right; for at last, when exhausted, 
Magdalen looked up, and was able to speak coherently, though in- 
terrupted still by occasional low sobs. She was weak, but again in 
her right mind. 

” 1 don’t Know how 1 could think of such a thing! Oh, surely 1 
could never have really done it,” she repeated, shuddering. ” It was 
not as if it was 1 myself, Rachel, but something seemed saying quite 
loud in my ear that Gaspard wanted to cut our throats, and that it 
would be kinder to stab him to the heart, rather than that our two 
lives, and perhaps Joy’s also, should be taken— and then all seemed 
to grow red before my eyes, liko blood!” 

” 1 believe the devil does so tempt many persons, and that some 
evil spirit did really so whisper to you,” returned Rachel, deeply 
moved with horror ot sympathy, yet all the more strong and solemn 
in religious laith. ” Oh, Magdalen, if the powers of darkness are 
so near us let us pray. We are told, you know, that by prayer 
alone we shall be granted help in an hour of need. Let us pray, 
dear, together.” 

“ Yes, yes; pray that good angels maybe sent to us instead,” fal- 
tered Magdalen, looking round as though she could see the ghostly 
visitants she so dreaded beside her in the cottage. She knelt close 
to Rachel, shivering, who placed a protecting arm around her 
shoulders, and raising her own noble head witn the grandly solemn 
yet simple look of a human being addressing the heavenly Father, 
whose omnipresence and actual presence there in the cottage, though 
unseen, she believed in, yea, as fully as, ever her patriarch forefa- 
thers, who had spoken with God face to face in the desert— she 
prayed aloud in undertones ot great emotion. 

When, after long intercession and entreaty for Magdalen, for Gas- 
pard, for herself also as a fellow -sinner with them both, during 
which her wiiole soul and heart seemed bared before her Maker, 
Rachel ceased — calmed and exalted as one whose petitions are 
granted. Magdalen, who had listened awe-struck, though weeping 
often in penitence, turned and kissed her. 

Now her kiss was so rare that Rachel felt a great surprise; tor 
Magdalen, w^hile always accepting her sister’s unspoken devotion as 
a matter of course, invariably expressed an almost whimsical distaste 


JOY. 


133 


to any personal show of affection between those who, living to- 
gether, kneio, she said, or ought to do so, of their mutual regard. 
She had often in this way rebuked Joy, whose exuberant nature, 
however, could not be so easily checked. And Rachel in her own 
heart had as often longed for some refreshment in her desert of that 
water which she submissively believed the closed well contained. 
For in things of the heart, mere spiritual faith without proof is apt 
to grow disheartened, and the plant that never blossoms seems no 
better than a dead stick. 

“ Rachel,” Magdalen said, “ 1 never have known, till this very 
moment, how much you have done for me all these years— nor what 
you really are! You have been my good angel. 1 have forgiven 
Gaspard now, all, with my wiiole heart, and 1 feel pardoned myself. 
1 seem to feel so white and clean too by that forgiveness that, if 1 
were to die at this instant, it might be a happiness to me.” 

“ Dear,” suggested Rachel, ‘‘ let us show forgiveness besides feel- 
ing it. His pockets must be empty, leaving prison, and by sunrise 
he is sure to waken and leave us. We have money, let us put up all 
we can spare for him, and he will find it when he has left us.” 

” Yes, yes; but shall we tell him who we are? Advise me, Rachel; 
1 feel as helpless as a child, and cannot think what is right, though 
1 wish to do it. There is Joy—” 

“ Shall we leave it, as we prayed, to God’s guidance?” said 
Rachel, staggered herself, for, alas, she now expected no late repent- 
ance, no good to Gaspard from such a revelation. 

He would only insist, perhaps, on staying hidden in the cottage, 
and who could foresee the eftect upon Magdalen. She repeated 
again, firmly, after short reflection, 

“ We shall be shown what is best to do; do not fear that. Now 
help me to get out our bag.” 

The sisters kept a little hoard of gold hidden under the hearth- 
stone, Hannah only, besides themselves, knew of this treasure, for 
it was the last of RachoTs small fortune, to be kept, in case of her 
own death, for Magdalen’s use. The difficulties of putting this 
money in a bank, owing to their circumstances of life, had seemed 
enough to induce them to hoard it themselves like the peasants among 
whom they lived. Rachel, being strongest, lifted the stone by a con- 
trivance she had made of first removing a brick from those that 
edged it, and so inserting her hand. The tilted hearth-stone showed 
a snug little cavity below, from which Magdalen eagerly lifted out 
an old-fashioned satin bag, embroidered in purse silks. Drawing up 
a stool beside Rachel, who was still on her knees by the fireplace, 
both sisters put their hooded heads together in whispered consulta- 
tion, while Magdalen, opening the reticule in her lap, ran her slender 
fingers through a little glistening heap of sovereigns it contained. 
They could hear the young house- martins chirping outside under 
the eaves in the stillness as they two bent close side by side, for the 
dawn was coming. 

“ How much can we spare him? Let us give him all— all we can! 
for Joy will be rich enough when she marries,” Magdalen eagerly 
murmured. ” It is only yours, you know, Rachel, tor mine was all 
spent by him— but vou agree? Yes, thanks, thanks. Ah! my 

Godr 


134 


JOY. 


The words came with such terror from, her lips, while her eyes 
dilated looking back, that Rachel quickly saw — oh, horror, Gaspard 
da Silva, just roused from sleep and stealing close upon them, his 
eyes still drunk with slumber, yet fixed with a savage, terrible joy 
on the gold, his brawny brown hand with its strong muscles clinched. 
There was a cry of entreaty! He heard not; understood nothing! 
Quick, blinding blows! a horrible, hopeless struggle as the women 
put up their arms helplessly to defend themselves. Magdalen, sink- 
ing, niade by some inexplicable instinct — she could not have told 
why — a last con v ulsive eflort tofhold the bag that was being wrenched 
from her clinched fingers— 

With a brutal execration the convict caught up the knife that still 
lay on the table by the lantern, where Rachel had placed them both, 
and aimed a blow that must have slabbed the poor woman at his 
knees, but that Rachel caught his arm. Half stunned herself, she 
yet averted the full force of the stroke, but it grazed her own neck 
and shoulder, inflicting a long flesh-wound. 

“ Gaspard!’' she cried. The hood tell back on her neck, reveal- 
ing her still beautiful face deadly white, in its setting of rich black 
hair. The murderer paused with his arm raised, and the muscles of 
his face yet working in the frenzj’’ of a blood-thirstiness, and glared 
with tear as at a spirit-being. “ Do you not know us? I am Rachel, 
and that is Magdalen, your wife!” 

She pointed to where, on the floor, her sister had fallen almost in- 
sensible, her face also now visible, but like that of the dead, her 
long hair curling about her. Gaspard gazed at her, wild-eyed— back 
at Rachel. 

Witches! ghosts!” he cried, with a horrible curse. Then, still 
clutching the gold, he burst away from the sight of that pale face 
and those imploring arms — out of the little biowm cottage under the 
dill, and away into the chill and mists and coldly coming dawn on 
the hills. 


CHARTER XL. 

*' This ae niglite. this ae nighte, 

Everie nighte and alle. 

Fire and salte, and candle-lighte, 

And Christe receive thy sawle. 

* * * * ^ 

“ If hosen and shoon thou gavest none, 

Everie nighte and alle. 

The whinnes shall prick thee to the bare bane, 

And Christe receive thy sawle." 

Lyke-Wake Dirge. 

All the next day a lonely man was wandering, wandering over 
the hills, lost in a fog that covered the moorland far as ever his 
weary feet could stray. Sometimes, sitting down under the poor 
shelter of a bush— dulled — cursing fate and the life he still dung to, 
he would try to think. Which way had he come? Where was he? 

With the dawn he had found himself at the topmost height of the 
Raven’s-tor. 

The cold, white light in the east, stealing upward through the thin 
mists that veiled the world and sky, told of the coming sun. Down 


JOY. 


135 

in a deep, broad valley below him were huge, opaque clouds— one 
shaped like a whale, he thought, others like monstrous, woolly 
white animals. Up rose Phoebus Apollo, glorious in morning splen- 
dor, his beams waiming the earth far and wide, and shooting at last 
into the valley below. At that gleam, as if obeying a master-spirit’s 
summons, the huge white clouds rose slowly at once into the warmed 
higher air. Up and up, like enormous sheep crowding to their 
shepherd’s call, they hastened, faster and yet faster. 

Once more the beautiful, ancient myth was daily fulfilled. Indra 
leads forth his cows to pasture in the plains of heaven; moisture- 
laden at night, they will noiselessly sink down to rest, brooding near 
earth once more. 

Ah! the sun was rising higher, with faint but revivifying warmth, 
on chilled human marrow and bones. “ Poor Tom’s a-cold!” 

The man, crouched among the piled stones of the huge natural 
cairn aloft starts, hearing the black ravens solemnly flapping over 
his head, and looks up at them vdth haggard eyes. Why do they 
come there? For him— lo pick his bones, if his pursuers, hunting 
the country far and wide, force him to stay hidden here in damp 
brushwood and bracken, hungry and wet for days, maybe, till his 
flesn rots, leaving only a skeleton lying in this cursed lair? Had he 
eaten food last night — had shelter? or was it all a wild, horrible 
dream, a nightmare? Perhaps yonder two black birds overhead were 
only those two witches watching him under another form! His 
heavy brain was bewildered, yet he told himself fiercely again and 
again that the cottage and those two he had seen there was all a 
dream — an illusion of the senses! Liberty had driven him mad. 

Yet his pockets were heavy with gold. And ha! what was this? 
The full sunlight showed him specks of blood on his shirt; blood — 
hers, Rachel’s. 

Ah, God! — it there be a God! — fate, cursed fate! it was true, then? 

Her own face that, after all these jail-years and memories of 
crime, had looked so sweetly up in his; her voice, her praying arms 
raised, and — l^er blood, heis, on his shirt! 

The convict — for Gaspard da Silva no longer seemed himself after 
all these years in which he had not heard his real name in prison, or 
among his evil associates— bowed his head on his knees. 

So had Rachel Estonia sat in that very spot on the desolate moor, 
how often in the by-gone years, but with what different thoughts in 
her heart. 

At last, alter a time, the man felt a perceptible sensation of chill, 
though the sun should have been rising and growing warmer. He 
raised his head. What was this? The sun no longer shone, except 
like a dull lamp, hardly visible through obscuring white mist. He 
started up and stared wildly round, but already nothing could be 
seen of the surrounding country, 

A tog on the moors— he knew what that meant. Perhaps safety 
from his enemies, perhaps, perhaps, that he could not find his own 
way. 

No thought of giving back the money that weighed down bis 
pockets was even now in his mind. His only idea on leaving the 
cottage and betaking himself once more to the shelter of the hills 
was the instinctive fear that a hue-and-cry might be raised after him 


JOY. 


136 

for this robbery. If he could but skirt along the upper moorlands 
till nightfall, then descend and make his way to the nearest great 
town, where he might lie harbored among those who would shelter 
such as he till danger was past — 

All that day, miles away in the lower cultivated countrj’’, the coun- 
try-folk could see the tog rolling in swaths of mist on the moois, 
passing in great clouds over the hills, onlj'" parting at moments to 
close together in thicker curtains than ever. 

It was a gray, mild summer’s da}’’ with them; thin mists, the 
edges of the great fog, swept down to them at times, biit still the 
work of mowing the hay-meadows went on. “ A terrible day on 
the moor!” they would say at times, pausing to sharpen scythes and 
looking up afar. They little thought a man was wandering on those 
hills, lost, lost, lost! soaked to the bone, heavy with gold, but hun- 

"Tn the late afternoon the sun made a brief effoit, and piercing the 
upper stratum of vapor touched the highest hill -tops. Up one of 
these the wanderer was now climbing out of valleys and combs, in 
which the mist was so thick and blinding their nature and depth 
could be guessed by no man, while he had slipped and been bruised 
often on the cliff sides. Ha! aloft here it was pleasant at last. A 
man could feel warm and at ease alniost but for the cruel hunger- 
pain gnawing at his vitals. 

Gaspard stood in the pale sunlight and looked up at the mild blue 
sky flecked with cloudlets. Around him was a clearly-defined area 
of a few square yards, but on the shoulders of the hill the fog was 
like great wool-fleeces. He stared hard, with all his might, striving 
to discern some outline of the new country which must lie below his 
eyry, but in vain. 

Close behind rose a tor, as on almost all these hills; but some- 
thing in the shape of these rocks, like granite cheeses piled on each 
other, struck him as vaguely familiar. As he gazed, a slow flapping 
of wings sounded overhead, and two solemn black birds rose and 
sailed slowly away. 

It was the Raven' s-tor. He had come back to the very spot he had 
left that early morning! Then he blasphemed. 

There was a chasm on one side of the hill, a sheer fall for the few 
yards he could see. He had halt a mind to fling himself down there 
on the soft gray vapor that hid all horrors of the descent and have 
done with it all; but the gold that jingled in his pockets as he moved 
restrained him. He sat down under a broom-bush, every twig of 
which was coated with moisture, and pouring a glitering si ream of 
coins through his fingers, gloated over them. He would still defy 
the world, buy life, liberty, pleasures — 

Ah ! Raising his eyes, he saw white, curving shapes rising like 
specters from the abyss full of mist below him. Were those women? 
— two women pointing at him with wan, long spirit-fingers. He 
trenibled, and cold drops broke out on his brow. Then he laughed 
at his own superstition, seeing now it was only some faint breeze, 
unfelt here, that had stirred the vapor below. But the tog was ris- 
ing surely — rising to rob him of his sunlight and warmth, and choke 
him once more with its cold, death-giving breath. There were ivy- 
trails falling down a wall of rock that jutted out to one side of the 


JOY. 


137 

chasm; he would watch them as a tide-mark. He waited; inch by- 
inch rose the wavering mist, in slow smoke-wreaths, rising slowly, 
touching the ivy; falling— then rising, lising, creeping upward inch 
by inch, with merely a few mocking, deceitful ebbs again. 

Night had come. There was no moon, and the faint twilight of 
early summer only showed a ghastly contrast of rifts of deep black- 
ness in the moor valleys, alternating with steaming, rolling swaths 
of white mist. At last the man heard the welcome sound of run- 
ning water as he descended a path that led to a river’s bed. Surely 
he knew the spot; this was the ford of the Chad, and across there 
stood the cottage he had reached last night — tut this night there was 
no lantern lit there / 

It wasJ;oo dark to guide himself but by the trees; yet he advent- 
ured himself hardily enough into the water, thinking that a second 
time he would go to the cottage at any risks, and see — The water 
became deeper and deeper, at each step. Still, surely he knew the 
look of the rocks to right and left. Suddenly he was carried off his 
feet; his strength left him, and there came a strong rush of water 
singing in his ears. 

Striking out in vain against the force of the current, dashed in the 
dark against wet and slippery rocks tnat hemmed in every side, Gas- 
pard da Silva found himself overcome in the depth and icy cold of 
the Headman’s Pool I 


CHAPTER XLI. 


“Shine! shine! shine! 

Pour down your warmth, great sun! 

While we bask, we two together, 

Two together ! 

Winds blow south, or winds blow north; 

Day come white, or night come black. 

Singing all time, minding no time. 

While we two keep together.” 

The sun shone gloriously next day on the Red House meadows, 
where the haymaking was in full swing. The air was full of sum- 
mer scents; there were jokes and mirth and cider passing down the 
ranks of the mowers, and among the women tossing the newly-cut 


^ It was such a day when the pure joy of living sends a thrill 
through the frames of those who can appreciate its subtle essence of 
delight; when the pain and sorrow and death in the world seem 
small things compared with the present full«ense of being, and the 
more veiled belief in our background of mind that thus we shall 
continue to exist in spirit through eternity. Blyth and Joy stood 
too-ether watching the haymakers. In their new gladness it seemed 
asif, while they kept thus side by side, that they saw together and 

thought together. . -t v. j 

“ 1 feel so happy to-day, Blyth. It seems as if, almost, I had 

nothing left to wish tor on earth,” said the girl. , 

She raised her hands to screen her eyes from the sun, looking 
round with a heart full of love on the hills, some veiled in haze. 


138 


JOY. 


some basking in tbe noontide heat; on the cool, winding Chad 
among its bushes and poplars, and at the red farm- walls beyond the 
meadow, where the garden glowed with llowers. 

“ 1 have tire promise of "all 1 wish for; but still 1 should like to 
know \^hat day you will make it all really mine,” said Blyth. 

Joy blushed. 

” It is so soon— Oh! there, I think the father wants to speak to 
me.” 

And on this pretense she w^ent ligntly over the grass, thus hiding 
her slight confusion, to where old Berrington sat under the hedge, 
with his hands clasped atop of his stout stick. He, too, was supposed 
to be watching the men at woi’k, but his eyes rested more often, with 
twinkles of sly satisfaction, on the 5 "Oung couple. 

When Joy left him, Blyth's eyes and ears became free again to 
oversee the mowers; and so he heard old Dick remark, with & cer- 
tain emphasis (Dick had already repeated the matter once or twice, 
but his young master had not heard him). 

“And so hur had no lantern alight at Cold-home last night, do 
’ee say? God gi’ no poor crature has lost un s life, then, at the ford — 
Well, well, now! And it lit there for years!” 

” What is that, Dick?” Blyth sharply asked, understanding that 
he was meant, to take notice of the reniark. 

The men told him that there had been no li 2 :ht set in the cottage 
window by the wisht-sisters during the past night; some of the vil- 
lagers coming back from a wedding had noticed it, and being afraid 
of the ford, because it was so dark that night, had gone round by the 
lower fields. 

Blyth became thoughtful as helreard this. 

” What is the matter? What are they saying?” asked Joy, trip- 
ping back. 

Blyth made a pretense so as to lead her away a few steps out of 
earshot of the men; then he said, with assumed carelessness, 

“ The river was very full last night, and there was no moonlight. 
They hope that no life was lost; that is all.” 

” How silly it seems to believe, as they do, that some one is sure 
to be drowned in it every year. And yet how often it does sc hap- 
pen!” cried Joy, referring to an old moor superstition. Then clasp- 
ina: her hands behind her head, and looking down at the little river 
on whose banks they stood, she sang whimsically the old couplet, 

“ Chad ! Chad ! river of Chad ! 

A dead man’s body maketh thee glad.” 

The river flowed with a laughing ripple by the hillock on which 
they stood,' those two young lives, full of present and hopes of fut- 
ure happiness. The cleat water was lit by the sunlight till it seemed 
pure and limpid as innocence; its little eddies sparkled like smiles. 
Who cou d have guessed that only two miles higher up from this 
scene of healthy labor and suniight and innocent gayety in the Red 
House Farm meadows there was a stark body lying at the edge of 
the Deadman’s Pool, with eyes turned blindly to the summer sky? 

Blyth now became somehow so ill at ease in his heart on hearing 
that there had been no light in Cold-home window the past night, 
that he soon made a pretext for stealing away from the hay-field. 


JOY. 139 

Hastening? to the farm, he found Hannah, and asked her lo go with 
him to reconnoiter if all was right at the cottage. 

“ By good luck, Hannah, it is the day for bridging their basket of 
provisions. We can leave it at the Logan-stone; and it this is a false 
alarm, you can say we shall be working , late in the hay-field, so it 
was easier to come at noon.” 

“We will so. Master Blyth. I’ll have the eggs and butter packed 
before you can turn yourself round. Oh, de^ heart! but 1 hope 
she’s not taken worse, and poor Miss Rachel alone there, too,” 
sighed old Hannah, with gusty sounds of tearfulness, as she bustled 
about making her utmost haste. 

Helped by Blyth’sable head and useful hands she was soon ready 
and on their way to the glen. Arrived at the Logan stone, Blyth piit 
down the heavy basket, which he lightly carried, at the accustomed 
spot. Then he advised Hannah to skirt the river-side by the path 
of the ford till near tne cottage, which would have a less premedi- 
tated air of approach should Magdalen be looking out, and shrink, 
as usual, from human faces. 

In this way, Hannah agreeing, they both passed by the Dead- 
man’s Pool. Blyth afterward could never rightly explain to himself 
what uneasy feeling made him take a few steps through the bushes 
to look at it — perhaps only some impression or idea left by the bay- 
makers’ talk. But on looking down at the pool, into which the 
water poured white with all the force of a mountain torrent that had 
been pent between narrow rocks till it burst out now as from a 
spout, and then whirled round and round in deep eddies, he started 
back with horror, for there lay close to his feet a something jammed 
between two stones. 

At his exclamation Hannah hastened also to the spot, and both 
stood gazing in mutual awed silence till the old woman suddenly 
gave a long cry, and then, clasping her hands to her head, uttered, 
in a whisper of surprise and great horror, 

“ Why, Lord ha’ mercy, it is -it must he him! Oh, to think of 
seeing my master like that after all these years — and 1 that never 
forgave him 1 He served the devil, and these are his wages. Lord 
nave mercy on his soul!” 

She sank back sobbing, and rocking herself to and fro, 

“ What do you mean, Hannah? This was a convict, you see. 
Surely you don’t really recognize him as — as any one you knew?” 

“ Yes, yes, but 1 do. Convict or no convict, that is, or— God 
have mercy on his poor soul ! that wm, the Count Rivello, Gaspard 
da Silva.” 

Blyth, shuddering at the nev’-s, stood still, thinking; but then 
after a few seconds stepped down into the pool, and exerting all his 
strength brought the corpse out and laid it on the moss under the 
alder- trees. 

“ What has happened at the cottage— at Cold-home?* Come at 
once and see,” said Blyth, cutting short the old woman’s useless 
lamentations. 

Quaking in her shoes as they reached the porch, Hannah knocked, 
calling out that it was she, with entreaty that Miss Rachel would 
speak to her a moment. 


140 


JOY. 


The door was ajar. A low sound came in answer, as of some one 
endeavoring feebly to answer them. 

They entered hastily at that, stepping lightly and cautiously, and 
found Rachel lying on the settle, apparently very ill. 

She roused up at their footfall, and raised her head. 

“ What is it? Magdalen has gone out, ’’she said, faintly. 

“Oh! Miss Rachel, are you so bad as that, and us never to know?” 
cried Hannah, shocked. “ Wbat has happened tO you? What 
is it?” 

“ What has brought you ? Has anything strange happened?” re- 
turned Rachel. 

“ Your face is all bruised and your neck bandagM,” went on the 
old nurse. “ Oh, poor dear! Was it Miss Magdalen?” 

“ It was not my sister. Don’t ask me questions, Hannah — it was 
all an accident. What has brought you both? Tell me at once! 1 
know there is some news — something. Go on— I desire it.” 

Hanuah, who was hesitating and attempting, but tailing always, 
to frame words, though her lips moved, began" at last, 

“ It’s very terrible. It’s the worst, and yet it’s the best news for 
us all. All things are ordered by Providence, and, if he had escaped 
free, who knows — I’m speaking of him, my dear — the count. 
Well, he must have been in the prison up yonder all these years, 
and last night — ” 

She stopped short. But it was enough. With a convulsive effort 
Rachel raised herself, catching at the side of the settle, as if hardly 
able to support herself. They then saw with mute concern that her 
face was deadly pale under her hood; she had dark hollows beneath 
her eyes, and an ugly bruise on one cheek. 

“ Have they caught him then? Have they taken him back to 
prison again?” she asked, in a hollow voice. 

Hannah could not speak, and looked at Blyth, who answered 
more bravely, not supposing the news could touch Magdalen’s sister 
with very deep personal feeling now, yet with reverent pity in his 
manly voice, 

“ He will never be taken to jail any more. Miss Rachel. You 
need not tear that — you need fear nothing now.” 

A spasm of pain that darted across Rachel’s features startled him. 

As if aware of it herself, she hastily drew her hood more forward, 
concealing her face. I'hen strangling a sob in her throat, she 
breathed, rather than said aloud, rapidly, 

“He is dead? Tell me, quick, Blyth Berrington, how it hap- 
pened; tell all, truly.” 

“ He was drowned last night in the Chad, down there. 1 have 
just found the body,” said the young man, unwillingly, yet forced 
to obey her. 

“ There was no light in the window,” she moaned to herself, hav- 
ing at once guessed the whole truth Blyth would so fain have spared 
her. “ Oh, fate! fate! Magdalen so ill; yet why could I not have 
roused myself to do that one act, if even 1 had been dying!” 

She seemed unable to stand as she spoke, and a horrible fear came 
over both, as they saw her so ill; they suspected why she had been 
unable to guard over the ford last night, for the first time these 
many years. Blyth would have held her up with his strong arm, 


JOY. 141 

but she motioned him away, and sunk back, as if utterly broken 
down. Hannah cried out, 

“ Oh, Miss Rachel, did he hurt you?” 

” Hush! It was an accident. He did not know — ” said Rachel, 
with a dignity tiiat awed them. Then added, heavily, “ Blyth, do 
you know who this man was?” ♦ 

“ 1 do. He was the lather of the girl 1 love best in all the world, 
and who, 1 am proud to say, has just promised to marry me,” said 
Blyth, stoutly. 

A. gleam of joy flashed in the dark caverns of Rachel Estonia’s 
eyes. 

” And this makes no difference to your feelings, noxoV^ 

“ What difference can it make, but that 1 wish with all my heart 
to help you the more, Miss Rachel? I believe you like me— will you 
not ask Joy’s mother ’to look on me as her son — ask her to give me 
the right to help you Troth?” 

” 1 will; indeed I will. None could belter deserve her; our child 
—Joy!” 

Alas! poor Rachel. But a few short days ago and Blyth’s news 
would have given her what she had not tasted for so long — pure 
happiness, it would have been a glorious sunburst through the dark 
clouds of her life. Bui now!— not even this could gladden her iu 
the old way any more. She might verily have bewept her own fate 
for (he pity of it, but she could not pause to think of herself, and 
only asked, with painful anxiety, 

“ Must the prison authorities be told that — that the body has been 
found?” 

” I fear they must. But why are you so anxious now?” replied 
Bl 3 dh, not comprehending. 

” They will take his body back to the jail, and bury it in a pau- 
per’s grave, in that dreadful prison, without even a stone, perhaps, 
to mark his resting place, ” said Rachel, desperately. “ Oli, Blyth, 
indeed he was once a gallant gentleman, before ill-fate and evil w^ays 
and associates brought him to ruin. Believe me, he was! Oh, try, 
try to have him spared this last indignity!” 

She was weeping. Blyth was greatly moved. 

‘‘ If 1 can by any means prevent it — if w^e, my father and 1, have 
any influence in such a matter, it shall not happen,” said he, 
warmly. “ There is a quiet corner of our own in the church -yard, 
just where the path comes down from the moor, and there we can 
make room lor Joy’s father. 1 can promise nothing of course, but 
1 swear I’ll do my best.” 

“ That is enough. And, meanwhile, where will you bring it?” 

She looked, snivering, toward the window, and away out at the 
river where the green- wood of trees and bushes hid the something 
she dreaded, yet .almost craved to behold. 

” Will you have him carried to the farm, or— or here? Shall 1 go 
and see?” 

She tried to rise, the strong woman who had never spared herself, 
but for once her power failed her, and her trembling limbs refused 
to obey. 

” Don’t go, dear— don’t try,” cried Hannah, soothingly, with a 


142 


JOY. 


gush of tears, though Rachel was quite dry-eyed. “I’ll see to it all, 
trust me.’’ 

“And trust me, too,” said Blyth. “There is the old corpse- 
house beside the church, you know. I thought that would be best.” 

This was a tiny building meant to shelter the coffins which often 
had to be brought a long-distance across the moors, and in olden 
days, when roads were fewer and worse, sometimes over-night. 

“ God bless you, Blyth Berrington,” said Rachel, solemnly. 

And then— then only, she fainted. 


CHAPTER XLIl. 

“ She came not, no, she came not home, 

Though cold the night and black; 

They looked out long, and looked out late, 

A-down the forest track. 

They waited long and wearily. 

Dear saints! where can she be? 

Just for one hour she rambled forth, 

But never back came she.” 

Rachel Estonia’s strength always seemed “ sufficient for the 
day.” 

{She had kept up her energies till her last cares for the unhappy 
man she had so greatly loved were taken from off her feeble shoul- 
ders by Blyth ’s intervention. Then she seemed to slip away from 
earth, tor a short time, into the gray land of know-nothing. 

Blyth carried her into the next room, and laid her on the truckle- 
bed. Hannah chafed her cold hands, and sprinkled water on her 
face. Presently, as they -watched her, while looking at each other 
and whispering their womlering fears as to w'hat had passed between 
the convict and these helpless women, a little flutter of reawak( ning 
life moved Rachel’s eyelids. Then she stirred as her spirit was 
heavily returning to take up its wonted duties in command of the 
body. 

“ Raise me a little. My head is so heavy — my neck is sore; the 
pain goes down to my heart. What is the matter?” she muttered. 
Then — “ Where is the money? Did he take it all? Gold — that 
brings all evil! Ah! only for that he might have gone in peace.” 

The others started and met each other’s eyes with the same ques- 
tioning glance. 

“ Did he take the money from you. Miss Rachel? Did he rob you 
then of your little savings, after all?” asked Hannah, in a caress- 
ing, pitying voice in her ear. 

But Rachel turned from her shuddering and in anger; she that 
was almost never so. 

“ He had the best right to it! We gave it— no, we meant him to 
have all he needed. Go home, Hannah, go back to the farm. You 
are very good, both of you, but 1 cannot talk, and am best left alone, 
indeed! 1 am used to it,” 

At that moment there w'as a quick footfall, and Joy, with her 
eyes shining and her cheeks flushed with excitement, appeared in 
the doorway of the inner room. 

“ Yes, they may go back to the Red House, but 1 will stay and 


JOY. 


143 . 

nurse you,” she said, hearing Rachel’s last words. Then she came 
and knelt down by tbe bed, putting her strong 3mung arm under her 
aunt’s head, who, turning, hid her face on the girl’s siioulder with 
an utterly weary, yet now restfully satisfied air, that in her touched 
them all. 

“ Where is your mother? Child, you don’t know all. Hannah 
will tell you.” 

” My mother has told me all! She came herself and desired me to 
go to you and nurse you. She w^anted fresh air for a little while— 
and said I w'as to stay with you till she returned.” 

After a few minutes, Rachel being soothed, Joy, obeying Hannah’s 
secret signals, slipped into the other room a moment. Blylh was 
waiting there, alone. He held out both hands to her and drew the 
girl toward him, looking pityingly into her ej’^es, 

‘‘ Darling, I could not bear to leave you without one word, though 
I am going now. But there is something I must tell you that jmur 
mother does not know. Your father last night was — well, he was — ” 

“ lie was drowned dowm there!” said Joy, hastil.y. And Blyth 
now perceived that the flush on her cheeks burned still in scarlet 
feverishness, that her lips were parched, and her big, dark eyes 
ailated with a look ot standing horror. ” Ho, do not kiss me, now, 
Blyth. I can hardly bear you to touch me. I feel such an outcast. 
My brain is on fire; my heart is like a coal. I have no pitj'- for him 
yet; but still, to die in his sins, almost a murderer!” 

“Judge not, ”_muttered Blyth, awkwardly. Then “ How did your 
mother know he was dead?” 

“ She had gone down to the river for water, then she saie it. She 
came fljnng dowm to the farm to find me, so terribly excited she had 
not even put down her can, or emptied it, but ran with it full, and 
splashing over her all the way. Plow slie frightened me!” 

“ My poor dear, jmu heard it all too suddenly indeed! Tell me — 
how did she take his death? Is she grieved, or only greatl}’- 
shocked?” 

Joy turned away her face, and almost wrung her hands out of 
Blyth ’s detaining grasp. 

“ Don’t ask me, Blyth. At least I can tell you only this, that she 
was terribly excited and very strange in her manner — but there ! she 
cannot help herself Then *we somehow spoke of you, and I said 
you would help us, and told of our engagement Oh, Blyth, Blyth, 
she was so angry at that! It was too painful, and you who are our 
best— except your father— our only friend.” 

Breaking down, sobbing, Joy hid her face iu her hands, but this 
time did not repulse Blyth, who put his arms round her slight form, 
shaken with violent weeping, but beyond a murmured word or two 
of brave hope, of tenderness, tliought it best to leave her to herselt. 

In a very short time the sudden stonn of grief was over, as was 
Joy’s nature. Dashing away her tears, she whispered, 

“ Now, it is no time to indulge my nerves, is it? I must go back 
to that dear saint in there. I hope she hasn’t heard me crying. 
Good-by, for the present, Blyth. You will go and do all that you 
can for Mm now, and I for her.” 

She slipped from his hold and was gone into the sick-room next 
moment, while Hannah as promptly hurried out and catching Blyth 


144 


JOT. 


by the sleeve before he could leave the kitchen, they held a short 
consultation in broken whispers. 

The old nuise, who was in the secret of the hiding-place for the 
sisters’ money, got Blyth’s help to raise the hearth-stone, which was 
lying unevenly in its bed. As they expected, the hollow underneath 
was empty; the nest-egg vanished. 

“ How much was there?” asked Blyth, low. 

” About tiiree hundred pounds in sovereigns. They had it so, be- 
cause it was easier to change in this part of the country than notes. 
Besides, Miss Magdalen will tear up any paper she sees wdien the fit 
is on her, while she likes seeing gold; so it was safer. They kept 
it in an old satin bag — their mother’s reddycule, they called it, that 
for old sakes’ sake Miss Rachel never parted with.” 

“It may be on the body still,” said Blyth, with a momentary 
shudder of a version. “ I will go and see.” 

But he found nothing after nerving himself to the necessary task. 
The coarse canvas jacket was half pulled from off the dead man’s 
shoulders, perhaps had been caught on the rocks in his last strug- 
gles for life. 

Blyth then waded into the dark pool, under the trees, and began a 
hasty search tli^^re in spite of the cold and the rushing strength of 
the river. The glitter of steel under water, close to \vhere he had 
found the corpse of Da Silva, stuck fast, caught his eye. He pulled 
out the object. It was an old knife; the one Gaspard had taken from 
the cottage, finding this loose, Blyth therefore concluded that the 
money had likewise been w^ashed out of Gaspard’s pockets by the 
current and force, and the position of the body. But he could not 
find tne bag, although he waded all round the pool and probed its 
depths with a long alder bough he tore off one of the trees. 

The sides and bed of the Deadman’s Pool were all fissured with 
cracks and crannies among the rocks. 

‘‘ No matter,” thought Berrington. ” It I can’t find it now'-, no 
other persons are likely to do so. Only that it is Miss Rachel’s little 
fortune, 1 would never grope more in this accursed spot.” 

As Blyth got out of the river, he saw two men at a little distance, 
coming down from the hills. They were shepherds, but were evi- 
dently shunning the accustomed ford and directing their w^ay down 
the other bank of the Chad, which meant a longer road to the vil- 
lage. As Blyth hailed them, they seemed alarmed, and took to their 
heels, to his surprise. He started in pursuit, but only after a hot 
chase down a long meadow, and when finding he was gaining on 
them, did they stop and face round. 

” Why, it be young Muster Berrington, surelie” said one to the 
other, slowly, breathing hard as Blyth came up with them; ” us had 
our run for nought.” 

” Well, I won’t have my run for nought, I promise you,” said 
Blyth, who was cross and disposed enough to give them both a thrash- 
ing for their behavior. “ What did you run like a couple of hares 
foi, eh?” 

They explained in a half-shamed but dogged waj'-that there was a 
hue and cry of police over the moors. A desperate convict had 
escaped from the prison up on the hills. He had knocked down a 
waider with a big stone, ahd had nearly murdered him, when out 


JOY. 


145 


working with a gang of other prisoners; so the shepherds had felt 
scared of meeting such a desperate man; while also one of the sister- 
women at the ford was said to be gone mad and ready to murder 
anybody that passed. 

“ Who dared say such foolish lies?” asked Berrington, sternly. 

The men looked at each other askance, but stuck to their belief. 

Young Mr. Hawkshaw, it was, who had warned them the night 
of the great storm, when he met his father at the ‘‘ Black Bull ” 
where they were sheltering. He had stood them a glass all round, 
and told them of his chase after the lunatic, who ought to be shut 
up, he declared, and not allowed to run loose like a mad dog through 
the country. And so she ought— he was right— both repeated. 

Blyth ground his teeth in silence. 

Then he began to speak. After telling them there was no longer 
any fear of the escaped prisoner, for that he Himself hafl just found 
his body in the Chad, he ordered them to take a gate oft its hinges 
and help him to carry the dead man down to the Red House. 

They demurred at first, but Blyth's temper was up; and he threat- 
ened to knock down whichever of them, or both, that dared oppose 
him— calling shame on them if they would leave the corpse of any 
human being, prisoner or free, exposed to the indecency of being 
attacked by flies in the wood there, before the police could come. 
As to the mad woman, whom they also seemed to imagine lurking 
ill the bushes ready to spring out “ like a wild cat and claw them,” 
as one muttered, he reasoned and expostulated. Had not she and 
her sister lived in his father’s cottage for years? he said; a little dazed 
at times maybe, she was still as harmless as he had known her from 
boyhood ; and her sister was the best, the most gentle of women. 

It was all in vain. 

Only when he spoke of the lantein lit every night for the past 
fourteen years or so, to guide wayfarers safely over the ford, one 
wavered. 

The other struck in that like enough it was only doing good that 
evil might come. Afi folk knew witches were powerless to cross 
running water; the Cold-home lantern might only be to entice wan- 
derers over to the cottage side of the Chad. 

Blyth became hopeless of persuading them; indeed, his blood 
boiled so that he felt too savage to use soft words in winning the 
men to his view of the matter. He had a rough temper, that only 
a good deal of self-control and hard work most days kept under. 
But he made the men obey his orders, nevertheless; and so, helping 
to place Caspard da Silva’s poor body on the improvised litter, he 
covered it reverently with his own coat. 

Then, grimly remarking that he would carr}’^ tor his own share as 
much as both the two other men, so there need be no grumbling, he 
made them raise the gate till he took up the dead man’s headf and 
shoulders on his own strong shoulders, and started for the farm at 
such a stout pace that the faint-hearted couple behind him, who 
were breathing hard and wishing to stop and wipe their faces, only 
did not call out for grace because of their manhood. 

Blyth wfis proud, perhaps too proud, of his strength, and liked 
feeling superior thereby, which was better, after all, than purse 
pride, that accepts being fawned upon. He was bent on hurrying 


146 


JOY. 


the body away trom the cottaae vicinity, in order that the sight of 
the police authorities and gaping rustics should not vex the women 
th( re. Avoiding the hay-held, he succeeded in carrying his burden 
unseen into the farm yard, and placed it, with the men’s help, in the 
empty apple-room, that was all clean swept, and, being flagged, was 
cool and sweet; then he brought a deal table from the kitchen for a 
bier. 

After this, he gave some beer to the thirsty men, and, sending 
them off on messages to the police in different directions (rather 
against their grain, tor they would have liked resting and drinking 
for an hour maybe), be hastened to find his old father among the 
mowers, and to break his news. ^ 

Farmer Berrington, though a man of such calm mood, was a good 
deal moved by the intelligence, owing to his age and state of health. 
Bljdh did not like to put seeing alter what was needful upon the old 
man alone, by going up the glen himself again like a love-sick 
swain. Besides, in another hour or so, his messages had reached the 
searchers, and the farm-yard was presently full of a small gaping 
crowd of the cottagers around, whom he had some ado to keep from 
getting into the apple- room after the prison-warders, to stare at the 
sight; tailing this, they began gossiping with the servant-maids and 
farm-men, till Blyth turned all the intruders out, neck and crop, 
and locked the road-gate upon every one of them. 

One big idler, who did odd jobs at tbe Barton for the Haw kshaws, 
tried to resist authority, till Blyth, suddenly catching him by a neat 
little wrestling trick, laid him low in the swine-trough; atter which, 
the rebel’s determination and that of his fellows vanished speedily. 
Murmurs reached Blyth ’s ears: “ That young Berrington was not to 
be crossed since he had come back from Australia;” “ that he was 
stronger than any two men, and tor very little would up wi’ his fist 
and knock any man’s two eyes as black as a marnin’ coach!” 

“ Turk or no Turk,” responded a matronly female admirer, ‘‘ he 
was twice the man his father was, although old George Berrington 
had been no tool neither in his day.” 

Whereupon, the tide of opinion turning (especially swelled by the 
farm-men, who were being sent back to work by their stern young 
master, after having deserted the hay without leave), the latter soon 
found himself looked on as a sort of Samson, feared as much as ad- 
mired; whose late teats of strength were whispered round and much 
exaggerated. 

And thus the hours passed, so that it was fully evening before 
Blyth could again set forth for the cottage up by the ford. 

He went slowly now; for the last half-hour and more had been 
spent in a difficult and long parley, in which he had to use all his 
wits and weightiest arguments, both with his old father and the au- 
thorities, in Older to carry out poor Rachel’s wishes respecting the 
convict^s burial. Old Berringtou’s feeling of sentiment stopped 
short there; or rather revolted at his own last resting-place beino" 
contaminated by such an unwislied for neighbor. Only Blyth ’s 
private entreaties and the remembrance of Joy had reluctantly pre- 
vailed with the old farmer, after all. 

It was weary work, but Blytli won the day, he believed, at last. 
So now it was a well-earned rest to go steadily, though not slowly, 


JOY. 


147 


and feel the sweet evening air blow on his brow as he trudged 
through the fields. Blyth was meditating what was now best to be 
done, because there was little room for four women in the Cold- 
home cottage, yet he could not think of leaving Joy alone there with 
her crazed mother, and Rachel so helpless; therefore must Hannah 
stay till some better counsel came to his mind, or the farm was freed 
from the dead presence there. 

As Blyth neared the cottage which lay hidden under the shadow 
of the cliff, a figure came out from the porch, hesitated, looking 
back as if div^ided in mind, then ran swiftly toward him. He had 
recognized Joy, and the very flutter and lines of her gown, he 
thought, before he could really descry her face or outline; likewise 
she had guessed who he was. 

She came flying up to him light as a wood-nymph, flushed, but 
only breathing a little more quickly than usual. 

“ Oh, Blyth, Blyth, where is my mother? Have you seen her?” 
was her first query. 

“ I have never seen her all day. Has she not come home?” Bljdh 
retorted. 

“ No — no; not yet. Her last words to me were that I was to wail 
for her with Aunt Rachel till she returned. She was wearied of 
yesterday’s nursing, of staying in the cottage, she said; she must 
ramble a little, but she would surely come back soon, and she made 
me promise to stay with my aunt, and take great care of her mean- 
while.” 

“ I will go and search for her up the glen to the w^aterfall,” said 
Blyth, dreading evil in his heart, but speaking cheerily. 

An hour later he returned — alone. 

Joy met him again, still more anxious. Rachel was so ill and 
faint, she knew nothing of their anxieties, and the poor girl dared 
not leave her. Old Hannah had gone searching down the river’s 
banks to the farm and back by the fields — in vain. 

Magdalen had not returned. 

Blyth Berrington, now thoroughly alarmed, hurried back to the 
Red House, got all the farm-men together as they were leaving work 
for supper, excepting Dick, who had gone to Moortown, and, with 
liberal promises of reward, raised a search-party that dispersed in 
various directions. 

Some hours later he rode up, after midnight, to the cottage. 

Before he could call softly, Joy herself slipped out into the porch 
and looked at him in the summer starlight. Before he could speak 
or dismount, she came and laid her head against good Brownberry’s 
neck, who whinnied in greeting; then she softly cried. 

” Don’t get off, Blyth,” she said, laying her hand on his knee, as 
he would have alighted to comfort her, if possible, though not 
knowing what to say. “ I s(;e you have no news. Something tells 
me we shall have none. If I could only go and search too— oh, it 
would be easier to bear! But you will try your best still, dear, for 
my sake, if not hers. It is all you can do for me.” 

Blyth did search his best that night with his men. He searched 
till the next day’s sun was high, still uselessly. 

Magdalen never came back to the cottage. 

She had utterly vanished. 


148 


JOY. 


CHAPTER Xmi. 

“ They made a bier of the broken bough 
The saugh and the aspen gray ; 

And they bore him to the Lady Chapel^ 

And waked him there all day; 

^ * 

“ They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, 

By the edge of the Nine-stane Burn, 

And they cover’d him o’er wd’ the heather-flower. 

The moss and the lady-fern.”— Scottis/i Ballad. 

~ Blyth Berrington had proved true to his word. 

Tlie evening sun was sinking, three days later, when a little group 
stood in a corner of the moorland churchyard rotind a fresh-made 
grave, beside the sheltered spot under the lee of the hill where the 
Berringtons had been laid to sleep for many generations. 

Ho tv still it wasl 

The service was over; the earthly body laid in earth; the grave 
covered in with the last sods. Yet old Parmer Berrington and his 
strong son remained standing bareheaded there and motionless in the 
golaen low light. They could hear the sheep cropping on the turzy 
hill rising steep behind the little lonely church, while the wild bees 
hew droning past them on a last homeward journey, honey-laden, 
to their hives. 

Down one of the paths leading through the yew-darkened, old, 
old wood— that had long ago hidden the little place of worship safe 
in its shelter, when the larger churches around were being ruthlessly 
demolished by Puritan emissaries— a vehicle could be seen driving 
away. It held the two jail officials come from the great convict 
prison away up in the heart of the moors. 

Down the narrowing perspective of another path a solitary rider 
was departing. That was the hunting parson, who did hard work 
riding to this solitary little moor-chapel from his own larger church, 
some miles away. 

“ They’re all gone safe now, boy. ’Twere no good to have raised 
gossip before,” said old Berrington, quietly, to his son, as he stood 
leaning on his staff, a massive, immovable figure. 

Blyth nodded; then, moving a step or two, he looked steadfastly 
up at the hillside above them, toward which his eyes had several 
times stolen unseen glances during the late solemn service for the 
dead. 

There was a clump of yellow, waving broom thick on the brae, 
just where the path sloped most steeply down. Out of this thicket 
two figures now rose, one short and very stout, the other tall and 
slender as a young birch-tree. These were Joy and her faithful old 
nurse. Hand-in-hand, like spirits evoked from the heart of the hill 
at Blyth’s signal, they rose and now stole down together; both dressed 
in decent black, but yet in no mourning that would attract notice. 

Joy, poor child, came and knelt lowl}'’ by the fresh-turned earth, 
with her hands clasped in earnest praj^er. Whatever her creed might 
teach, whether it was too late or not for intercession, she never 


JOY. 149 

thought, but, following her feelings, prayed tor the dead ; the others, 
in reverence for her filial devotions drew a little away. 

A strange mingling of shame yet pity rilled the young girl’s heart 
for the dead so near her knees, yet so far away now. Who knows 
where? A few feet below this red, broken soil on which her warm 
tears fell, only hidden by that and a wooden cotfin from her gaze, 
lay the father whom she could not remember, whose face after death 
they would not let her see, in spite of her entreaties. 

“ Best not; I can tell you, dearie, how handsome he once was,” 
Hannah had murmured. 

“ Oh, the pity of it all!” thought the girl, shuddering. She was 
so pale and altered in the last three days that the change was start- 
ling. She seemed not so much suffering from grief as looking in- 
finitely older by the terrible experiences that had so suddenly as- 
sailed her in such a short time, all come like thunderbolts falling 
from a smiling sky, when her jmung happiness was at its height I 

Her father an escaped convict, his chase, and Magdalen’s Vv^ild 
hints of the terrible night in ‘the cottage, that she could not keep 
from her child; the horror of his death; next, ami worst of all her 
mother’s disappearance — the agony of suspense as to her fate; lastly, 
that Rachel Estonia, who was dearest and nearest in heart to her 
niece of all women-souls she had known, lay still too ill even ta 
guess at the cause of Magdalen’s absence! 

They had' only dared to tell soothing evasions to the sick woman 
— that her sister had promised to return very shortly; that she wished 
Jo}'' to do the sick-nursing in her stead. And this last seemed so 
natural to poor Rachel, in her long habit of unselfish devotion, 
which asked and expected no ret urn, that she lay dreamily imagin- 
ing Magdalen at the Red House, well cared tor. But she roused her- 
self to bid Joy, in a weak whisper, leave her to attend the funeral 
of the girl’s father. And Hannah must go too; all respect must be 
paid. (Perhaps the inability to follow Gaspard da Silva to his grave 
herself seemed th^.- last bitter expiation to the sorrowful woman of 
her great trial of life, which at times, looking back, seemed so terri- 
bly like a sin!) 

So Joy covered her face with her hands now, shaken with pity, 
not so much for herself, but imagining the sorrows of those two 
women who had so long lived up yonder in the glen. Her mind, 
with pure daughter’s instinct toward all three, as it were, glanced 
away from the early history of their lives (though guessing some- 
ihing of that troubled tale). But the later years rose before her; the 
unhappy madness on bne side, the life-sacrifice on the other. The 
fears; the hard, poor manner of living; the loneliness, with so few 
or no other human souls of cultured mind or kinship in birth near — 

It was all true. Yet whatever her sympathy, her own true grief 
for them, Joy could never equal, or even enter greatly into, the feel- 
ings of the two elder women for whom her young heart mourned 
with such aching pity. 

Wliat could she tell, this young, bright girl, of the days when 
they also had been young, and her lather like a strange, bright, if 
baleful, star on theii life tiorizon? What could she guess, even with 
help of love’s imagination, of their secret pain and sorrow? 


JOY. 


150 

So little, it was almost nothing! Each heart truly knoweth its 
own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not with its joy. 

A voice startled Joy. Looking up she saw Blyth standing over 
her, strong and tall, with the living love in his honest blue eyes that 
gave her consolation and the sense ol support even as her troubled 
gaze met his. v 

“ My father and Hannah have driven away in the gig, dear. She 
could not walk back to the cottage. I will stay with you here as 
long as you like; but— do you not think the living needs you now 
more than can the dead?” 

‘‘You are right, Blyth; you are always right. Yes, I will go 
back to Aunt Rachel now. It was best for Hannah to drive, so I 
meant to walk back by myself over the moor-path.” 

‘‘ I thought you would do that; and so I meant to walk with you.” 

Silently Joy rose, checking a small smile that halt broke on her 
lips; checking too an embrace that Blyth, suddenly moved by strong 
pity as he looked dowm at her bright beauty, so dimmed and down- 
cast, would have bestowed upon her. It was not the fit time or place. 
But she thought forgivingly to herself that after all a man was not 
expected to know better; so she softly nestled her hand into his large 
palm, and they went away over the hills together. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

“ We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon, 

How restlessly they speed and gleam and quiver, 

Streaking the darkness radiantly I yet soon 
Night closes round, and they are lost forever.” 

Shelley. 

As they went back to the cottage over the sun-kissed hills, while 
the valleys lay in shadow, going along the very track the two sisters 
from the cottage, over yonder had paced so often on Sundays, Joy 
leaned more heavily than usual on Blyth’s arm. She had sat up the 
last three nights with Rachel, against Hannah’s entreaties, unable to 
sleep with thoughts of her mother’s fate. Her springy step was 
vanished. For the first time in her life she felt tired out in mind and 
body. 

Both were silent at first,* their thoughts oppressed by the late scene 
they had left. Then Joy’s eyes began to wander; gazing over the 
swells of moorland to where in the heart of these, lay the danger- 
ous quagmires and boggy grounds she had only heard of as impassa- 
ble to human footstep." 

‘‘ Blyth! could my mother have strayed up there?” she asked, 
pointing, and drawing nearer to him, with horror of the thought. 
‘‘ 1 feel as if I would like to go away 3 mnder with you how, and 
search, and seaich till I dropped down, unable to stir — or till I had 
found her. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Joy, my dearest, jmu would not find her there. Our men are 
still searching; but, if alive, she must have wandered further. If 
not — ” 

He broke off; but the poor girl understood the remainder. 

If dead, those greenly trea(*heious l)Ogs up yonder never gave up 
their prey; but the sundevv would blossom, and the cotton-grass 


JOY. 151 

wave over their pitfalls as if no harm, to any creatures of God’s earth 
lay hidden under that treacherous surface. 

She began again pr( sently. 

“ There is something on my mind to tell you, dear Blyth. It 
may be nothing, and yet — 1 wonder could Steenie Hawkshaw have 
seen mv mother after she left me at the farm?” 

Blyth started violently, almost guiltil}’^; then, controlling himself, 
asked, 

” What makes you think that?” 

‘‘ Think it, no; not that exactly. But there is a curious feelipg 
on my mind that it might be so. To explain it a liitle, tor it is only 
a fancy, I must tell you something that happened, Blyth, the night 
of the storm, after you left us.” 

Then Joy, faltering, with a modest country maiden’s feeling, who 
does not think it right to boast her conquests, told of jmung llawk- 
shaw’s words to her in the hut, and his anger at the revelation of 
who her mother was. 

“Exactly. 1 thought as much,” assented Blyth, with a curious 
reluctance to enter further into the subject; and* as if that ended all 
to be said. 

“ But stay, you don’t see; you can’t understand,” pursued Joy. 
“ 1 told'^you a little of what she said to me that dreadful morning 
when I saw her last, but not all. There was something more; but 
all that day 1 could not tell you, tor it did not seem to matter, and 
ymu were so busy at the farm with — with the police. And ever 
since you have been searching these three nights and two long da3"s. 
Oh, what j'^ears those hours have seemed! She was very angry, as 
1 told you, to hear of our engagement, and cried out she had alw^ays 
meant me foi young Hawkshaw, and urged and ordered me to have 
him instead of listening to what I said. 1 did not like before to tell 
you all her ravings, poor dear.” 

“ Tell me now,” said Blyth, in a suppressed, deeper voice than 
usual. “ 1 have had something to tell you also, but it will keep 
awdiile.” 

To abbreviate the questioning and answers with which these two 
lovers naturally broke Joy’s discourse, it may now be told without 
these interruptions, which one invited and the other gave not neces- 
sarily, but in proof of mutual sympathy and affection. 

On that sunuy morning, then, when all nature seemed rejoicing, 
and the hay making was iu full swing in the meadows, Joy, finding 
Blyth and even old Hannah unaccountably absent (about their vari- 
ous work, no doubi, she thought), had betaken herself to a favorite 
occupation of nailing up some creepers, everlasting sweet-pea and 
morning-glories, in the garden. As she gayly hammered her own 
pretty nails often enough, instead of the iron ones, she was singing 
at the top of her voice, while standing on a step-ladder. 

Thus, being deaf to all around her, Joy all at once felt the ladder 
violently shaken, and looking down alarmed, while catching at the 
creepers for support, saw, with infinite amazement, her mother. 

Magdalen had never been inside the farm-gates all these years. 
She was no longer looking round affrighted for fear of any stranger, 
however, but exclaimed, as if in extreme haste and impatience, 

“ Come down at once, Joy, come down. You made such a noise 


152 


JOY. 


1 could not get you to hear me. 1 want to speak lo you immediate- 
ly! immediately!” 

Seeing the glitter of her mother’s eye, and feeling the strangeness 
of this visit, Joy got quickly down, and, quietly taking her hand, 
endeavored to lead Magdalen into the parlor. 

” We shall be alone there,” she said, “the farm-servants often 
come by here, and you won’t wish them to hear us.” 

But Magdalen resisted. 

“ Let all the world hear me; the world, and all that is therein ! I 
fear nobody and nothing now,” she exclaimed, in a loud voice, look- 
ing round defiantly, although wrapping her cloak about her with a 
secret air. “ The devil is dead, child; he was drowned last night in 
the Chad. 1 went to get some water for poor Rachel this morning, 
and saw him lying there in the Deadman’s Pool. Then I took to 
my heels, and ran down here to tell you.” 

“ Oh, come into the house, mother dear,” implored Joy, to whom 
it was dreadful that this frenzied talk, as she believed it, should be 
overheard; and looking round in agony. 

“ Ha! you are cunning, 1 see. Yes, yes, as 5 '^ou are his child, it 
is wiser of you. I can be careful, too!” said Magdalen, whispering 
now, and sitting down on the bench in the porch, drawing Joy close 
beside her, with a tenacious grasp, wonderful in those slim fingers. 
“ You think me mad, child, but I’m not, See, here is the little can 
I took, and this is some of the water he w’as baptized in. Was he 
washed from his sins, do you think? I hope he was, but still I 
don’t — oh, I don’t want to meet him in heaven!” 

With difficulty Joy persuaded her mother to allow her arm to be 
relieved of the can’s weight, while still Magdalen kept her cloak 
closely huddled about her. But she went on more coherentlj^, tell- 
ing how that, as Joy knew, Da Silva, her father, was a convict; 
nay, more! that he had been only some fourteen miles away all 
these years, in the moor-prison. She acted, irnconsciously, the scene 
of his entering the cottage with such vividness, giving even the 
smallest details of her own and Rachel’s behavior at first so natur- 
ally, that a sudden revelation that here was no insanity came upon 
Joy; and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, 

“ Merciful heavens! it is true, then. Go on, go on, mother! Tell 
me all.” 

“ What is there so much more to tell?” returned Magdalen, paus- 
ing suspiciously at once on being urged. “ He mistook the ford last 
night, and is drowned; and we are tree, free as the birds, now!” 

Then she went on, rubbing the palm of her hand restlessly to and 
fro on her knee. 

“ I didn’t kill him; no, I didn’t, though I thought I would. And 
then he tried to kill us instead. Is that divine justice? Rachel is 
very ill now— she saved me from being stabbed by him. He always 
liked her best. There, now, be calm.; do be quiet, Joy!” for the 
girl sprung up, horrified, with entreaties to know the worst about 
her A-unt Rachel. 

“ She had to stay very quiet yesterday, and the fog made her 
worse; but now you shall nurse her. 1 never was good at that.” 

“ But him — the body! 1 must find Blyth at once, and he will 
help us,” cried out Joy, distracted. 


JOY. 


153 

“ Blyth, indeed. No, you shall not tell him. I don’t like him; 
from this time forth you shall not speak to him. A mere faimer’s 
son, and no tit company for you.” 

“ Oh, mother! 1 am going to marry him — I have promised him,” 
hurst from Joy’s lips, who felt pained and vexed, even while suffer- 
ing so much greater agonj', to hear hei* Blyth underrated. 

“Marry him! now— now that we are free!” shrieked Magdalen, 
stretching out one arm and shaking her clinched hand against her 
child in violent denunciation. “You shall not do it — never! never! 
you will not dare to brave my curse by crossing me. 1 mean you to 
marry young Hawkshaw, and be a lady, and inistress of the Barton. 
1 can come and visit you there, and we will travel, and be gay and 
.rich, and visit London and Paris again; but I could not condescend 
Jo enter a. mere farm like this.” 

The poor soul looked round with a lofty air at the pretty Red 
House in its homely garden, and the fair view before her of the 
Chad valley and the hills around. 

“ Aunt Rachel has always wished it. Oh, mother, he and I have 
grown up together as if meant for each other,” faltered Joy, fe'^ling 
cold with the dread of another dark cloud of evil drawing over her. 
“ And as to Steenie Hawkshaw, dear, don’t think of him. He does 
not want me tor a wife. Blyth Berrington is too noble to mind my 
— my parentage; young Hawkshaw would.” 

Magdalen doubled herself up, rocking back and forward with a 
whimpering cr}^ 

“ All against me to thwart my wishes, you and Rachel, and even 
this young fellow. But no, he did want you ; it must be some mis- 
management. Go and tell him your father is no more, child. Say 
you will be rich, you will have a fortune. Men love gold; gold- 
mines is what they all want. ” 

Joy pleaded, soothed, tried to reason with her. 

“ How can 1 beg a young man to marry me, dear mother? You 
love me, you love Aunt Rachel ; do not make us both unhappy even 
to please yourself.” 

“ Yes, yes, poor Rachel — of course. But still— oh, 1 do want to 
have my own way at last!” Magdalen returned, weeping in a low, 
hysterical way, pitifully, like a vexed child. ‘ ‘ Such a miserable 
life as 1 have led, chained all these years under that great rock up 
in the glen, fettered by fears. Rachel is a saint of goodness, but 
she always liked b<nng dull. Ynd now, if you marry your country 
clown, she will want 'me to settle down like herself into feeling a 
grandmother, 1 know; and will only be happy knitting socks for 
your babies, witb no more change of life than an old tree. No, trees 
put off their leaves in winter, that’s their change; we are more like 
sheep, just a woolly shawl on and a little more miserable weather in 
winter— no other difference between the seasons.” 

“ Mother, mol her, only think that all this time we are leaving 
Aunt Rachel alone, and she so ill! We can talk of all this later; 
there is no hurry,” implored Joy, in accents of the most agonized 
haste and distress, only controlled by fears of exciting her mother 
loo much, even in a right direction. 

“ Would you give up your Blyth if young Hawkshaw did still ask 


154 


JOY. 


you to be his wife?” Magdalen reiterated, only partly heeding her 
daughter. 

” What does it matter whether I say yes or no? He will never 
ask me. Oh, mother, mother, 'let me go! Come yourself. Re- 
member how often she has nursed you.” 

The last words seemed to restore Magdalen to some sense of the 
real situation of matters about her. She rose too, and said in a nerv- 
ous, burned voice, 

“ Don’t think ill of me, dear child. There is no one like Rachel; 
but I do so hate sick-rooms. 1 was with her all yesterday, and did 
my best, indeed ” (that was true), ” but now 1 feel so tired of being 
mewed up in the cottage. 1 want a little fresh air and liberty. 
Do you go to your aunt; promise me not to leave her till 1 come 
back, foi I will only just ramble for a little way, and then return. 
Promise me,” 

So Joy promised, with hurried beseechings to her mother not to 
be late; then sought Blyth and Hannah wiih vainly dying footsteps 
till she heard from the servant-maid they had gone op the glen. 
Thither she sped after them, supposing they had heard the news; 
and avoiding the Chad and the sight of any human being on the 
farm, for she felt branded as a convicl’s daughter. It was her own 
father who had twice attempted, it not committed, murder in his 
escape, and wdio lay somewhere near — drowned. 

” Do you think she could possibly have tried to seeSteenie Hawk- 
shaw? Is it any clew?” asked poor Joy of Blyth, with anxious 
half-shame at her own idea, when she had ended. 

” Yes, dear, we found that clew,” said Bl}^!!, slowly and heavily. 
He felt himself a brute, well-nigh, in his inability to bieak the truth 
to her as gently as he could have wished. 

Nevertheless, she was dimly aware of some of the great kindliness 
and pity in his bosom as she grasped his arm closely now, trem- 
bling. 

” We found she was seen going to the Barton, where she asked to 
speaK to Steenie. Don’t be hurt, dearest; but, whatever passed be- 
tween them, he seems to have been rude and insulting.” (Blyth 
liad some ado to say this quietly, though his face took a grim, stern 
]y set expression.) ‘‘Anyhow, she was next seen hurrying out of 
the Barton gate, and taking her wav up the hills as fast as possible, 
and over the moor. She may have passed across the Moorlown road, 
and gone higher still. No one has seen her since.” 

‘‘ is that all you have to tell me?” asked Joy, with suppressed 
passion that made lightnings of her eyes. W’hile her throat tightened 
and her heart beat violently. 

“ That is all 1 need tell you.” 

” Then it is Jiis fault— young Hawkshaw’s fault,” said the girl, 
fiercely, her quick Southern blood asserting itself. 

Blyth, tor all answer, passed his arm round her waist and im- 
prisoned both her hands in his, as it to keep her still. Then, look- 
ing down closely at her, he said, 

Remember your battles are minch dear, so far as a man may 
rightl}'’ and lawfully fight tliem for you. Steenie Ilawkshaw is 
ashamed enough now of his conduct, you may be fairly sure.” 


JOT. 


165 


“ But that is not enough. Ashamed! 1 want him to be hurt, too, 
remorseful, imnished as he desermsT' breathed the girl, passionately, 
stamping her foot, 

“ That vengeance is not ours; wait!’' said the young man, with a 
stern inner belief that what sins are not otherwise righted surely 
avenge themselves by natural laws of cause and effect. Then, in a 
changed tone of sudden surprise, he exclaimed, “Look! see! what 
is that?” 

They had reached the brow of the moors immediately above Cold- 
home, and down in the glen they now perceived a crowd of little be- 
ings, darting round the cottage hither and thither. A school seemed 
broken loose and running riot in play -hours. 

ISot pausing to ask each other what such an unusual event might 
mean, only knowing it portended some news, whether of good or ill, 
both ran down the path toward Cold-home at their utmost speed. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

“ I winna play at stane-chucking. 

Nor will I play at tlie ba’, 

But I’ll gae up to yon bonnie green hill, 

And there we’ll warsell a fa’ ; 

They warsled up, they warsled down. 

Till John fell to the ground ; 

A dirk fell out of Willie’s pouch 
And gave him a deadly wound.” 

Old Ballad. 

If Blyth had not told Joy all the details of her mother’s visit to 
the Barton, it was a pious fraud. The truth he kept back was as 
follows: 

When he heard the rumors of poor Magdalen having been seen at 
the Hawkshaws, it was the second day of the painful quest, and 
Blyth was then on the moors with one of the scattered search- 
parties. He galloped off on good Brownberry in hot haste to the 
Barton, eager t(. ascertain more, and suspecting no ill there. 

Blyth saw old Hawkshaw, distinctly, shambling behind the close- 
clipped cherry-laurel hedges, in what he was pleased to call his little 
pleasure-ground (an open grass-plot). The old man must have recog- 
nized Blvth also, but disappeared into the house. The Barton had 
been rebuilt, and was now a pretentious sort of small villa, with 
whitewashed walls and a sickly “ puzzle- monkey ” shrub or two edg- 
ing its curving graveled walk, of a few yards in length, in a forlorn 
manner. Tying Brownberry to the gate, Blyth pulled the bell at 
the front-door for some minutes without seeing or hearing a sign of 
life on the premises. Provoked ai thus losing time, he strode round 
to the yard behind, equally empty, and there hammered so soundly 
at the fastened kitchen-door that the echoes resounded. A mongrel 
sort of mastiff and a lurcher hereupon tore at their chains and 
howled at him, till their throats must have been sore. 

At last came a rasping sound in answer. 

A rusty window was opened overhead, and a crone put her hea'd 
out to ask what he wanted. But hardly waiting tor young Berring- 
ton’s explanations, she bade him go off; him and his search-parties 
be dratted! Her master said they would get no satisfaction from 


156 


JOY. 


him, and advised the Berringtons, father and son, to try to find some 
wits for themselves before hunting the moors for a crazy beggar- 
woman who never had any. 

The window closed again with a snap, and Blyth was left alone. 

He went off repulsed and chafed now, all the more resolved to in- 
quire closely or bring the police. But at a wretched cottage by the 
roadside belonging to old Hawkshaw he got his information. A 
woman therein, smarting under notice of dismissal from her landlord, 
told how she had felt curious on seeing one of the wisht sisters 
stealthily hurrying by, cloaked and hooded, with an excited air as 
if afraid of being seen, and watched her going in at the Barton gate. 
This was so odd that the woman caught up her baby and went out 
to see what next might happen; wishing also to have a better look 
at one of the strange recluses whom she had never seen near. She 
had not waited a few moments when a terrible noise was heard in- 
side the house. Steenie Hawkshaw appeared, pushing out the poor 
madwoman, who resisted, clinging to him and shrieking out en- 
treaties to be heard. Old Hawkshaw stood by, roaring with laughter 
at the fun. Sudacnly ceasing her impoitunities, Magdalen collected 
herself and walked to the gate with the dignity of the finest lady in 
the land. Then, stopping short and raising her arm like a play-act- 
ress, she pionounced words of such an awful curse upon the inmates 
of the house that the poor laborer’s wife, listening, declared her 
blood ran cold! Even Blyth was appalled, heariug the anathemas 
but partly repeated*, denunciations which in all her life one might 
swear Magdalen never could have heard. It was enough to make 
him believe in the old doctrine of possession, and that the demon 
within that frail, delicate form had cried out, not she herself. What 
followed was as terrible in a dilferent way. Young Steenie then 
shouted out he would set his dogs upon her. And unfastening the 
two house-dogs, although holding them by their chains, he called 
out two or three terriers from, the stables, hissing them at Magdalen, 
and following them up himself with half-tipsy, brutal mirth. 
Screaming, the unhappy woman fled as for her life down the road, 
on and on, followed by the posse, snapping, yelping, barking at her 
heels; besides jeered by a troop of small urchins such as seem lo 
spring up from the earth on all occasions of unusual events. 

“ The terriers didn’t bite her, but law! she had the heart as fright- 
ened in her bf3dy as if they had,” said the woman. ” And if Steenie 
had not held in the big dogs with all his might, they would have 
torn Her to bits.” 

Then in desperation, as it seemed, Magdalen climbed up the hill- 
side that there led steeply to the moors, and so presently the chase 
dropped. That was all. 

Blyth, on hearing this, only asked, quietly, 

” Where might Stephen Hawkshaw be likely found?” 

The woman said at the inn of Drewston (a little village popularly 
supposed to be thus called as a corruption of Druid’s town.) 

Thither went Blyth, and Brownberry’s reeking sides showed the 
pace as he drew bridle after a mile and a half’s gallop. The inn there 
boasted a rickety billiard-table, which, however wretched, was a 
chief attraction to young Hawkshaw and a few other idle spirits 
lower in the social scale than himself. For he loved to be king of 


JOT. 


157 

his company at times, or, as he expressed it, “ cock of the walk.” 
He was taking an afternoon drink at the bar now, with some of these 
companions, when Berrington came in and curtly asked him for a 
few moments’ private conversation. Hawkshaw returned rudely he 
w^anted to hear nothing from him, nor himself to say anything to 
him. 

” Are you afraid of what 1 may have to ask?” said Blyth, low, 
seeing his enemy quailed under his eye; being indeed tormented by 
visions he was trying to drown in drink of a dead woman lying in 
the bogs, 

” Afraid-?'^ 

Hawkshaw fired up at that, and looked round for admiring scorn 
of such a charge from his backers, but out of respect for Blyth ’s 
request, whose favor it was not amiss to conciliate, they had all re- 
tired a few steps aside. 

Seeking to command his temper, Blyth demanded to know for 
what cause Bteenie had turned out of his house, two days ago, the 
poor woman now lost on the moors. 

“ For what? Because she came and nearly worried the life and 
soul out of me. Would you like to know why she came, eh?” 

And, exulting in the opportunity of giving a nasty wound to his 
successful rival, Steenie jeeringly went on, 

“ Ton’ll be interested, so I’ll tell you as a kindness. She came to 
beg me to marry her daughter — there! wanted to bribe me with rav- 
ings of gold she would sive me; ha, ha! 1 wish you good luck of 
your mother-in-law, if you find her.” 

“ Hold your tongue, I advise you, since you may be responsible 
before God for her death,” said iBlyth, in a tone so stern it brought 
a horrible conviction of guilt for a moment to his hearer’s brain, 
though inflamed and confused by drink. Then adding, ‘‘ You 
neither knew who she was nor what she was,” he moved toward the 
door round which the men were grouped. 

But Hawkshaw yelled after him, striking his fist on the bar among 
the glasses, 

“ What is that you say? Stop a bit — I’ll tell you before these gen- 
tlemen here. Says 1 don’t know who the old mad-woman is that he 
is hunting for through the country. Well, she called herself by the 
name of Stone, and she’s own mother to Miss Joy Haythorn, so- 
called up at the Red House, who is said to be engaged, or likely to 
be, to our neighbor, Mr. Blyth Berrington here, and I wish him 
much joy of her. And as to what the old witch was—” 

He uttered some coarse expressions, on which Blyth, turning 
sharply back, caught him near the throat, and ordered him to take 
back his own words as a foul lie. Stephen wrestled violently. 
Stronger by far though Blyth was, his opponent was muscular and 
quick as a panther. A few seconds the bystanders watched the 
struggle with breathless interest, then as Stephen, gasping still, re- 
fused to retract his words, Berrington (having foreseen some such 
likely emergencjO gave him a severe chastising with the short riaing- 
whip he carried stuck in his pocket, then walked out of the inn, and 
rode away. In two days the fame of this exploit went far and near. 
Only Joy did not hear of it. 

But ill deeds breed emulation still more than good ones, unhap- 


JOY. 


158 

pily. And one of the boys who saw Hawkshaw chasing poor Mag- 
dalen it was that now had been fired to organize the raid on the 
cottage. 

CHAPTER XLVl. 

“ Oh, near ones, dear ones ! you in whose right hands 
Our own rests calm : whose faithful hearts all day 
Wide open wait, till back from distant lands 
Thought, the tired traveler, wends his homeward way. 

“ Young children, and old neighbors, and old friends. 

Old servants— you, whose smiling circle small 
Grows slowly smaller, till at last it ends 
Where in one grave is room enough for all. 

“ Oh, shut the world out from the heart you cheer! 

Tho’ small the circle of your smiles may be. 

The world is distant, and your smiles are near: 

This makes 3mu more than all the world to me.” . 

Lord Lytton. 

Since the day when the children of Bethel came out with their 
mockings of “ Go up, thou baldhead,” other little ones through 
ages have repeated the good or evil outcries, or hosannahs, caught 
up from their parents’ lips, and so have been blessed or cursed, ac- 
cording as the righteousness or the sins of the fathers were visited 
on the next generation. 

On reaching the little cottage, Blyth found it attacked by a swarm 
of all the village children. They were jeering at old Hannah, who 
stood scolding them from the porch like a demented being. Every 
now and then she would make a short raid upon the enemy, which 
dispersed at once, far outstripping her heavy movements, and then 
returned with fresh delight to bait her. 

A shower of missiles Was flung against the cottage W’^alls as Blyth 
appeared, in haste to the relief. Most were inoffensive enough; 
twigs, lumps of moss, but some few stones rattled about the door, 
to Blyth ’s anger. 

He dived into the fray, while Hannah uttered exclamations of 
thapkfuiness at the unlooked-for succor. 

“ Oh, Mr, Blyth, you don’t know what mischief they’ve done. 
They’ve gone and screamed out to Miss Rachel about her sister 
being lost in the bogs — and she knows it all! Goodness forgive 
me for being angry with such children, but to spare them would be 
to spoil them,” 

Catching one of the ringleaders, whom he recognized as an in- 
corrigible brat (so far in the imp's history), Blyth held him fast, 
kicking and struggling. Then, calling to the rest, who at once dis- 
persed with cries of alarm, he announced he was going to make a 
scapegoat of his prey, and duck him in the river; the others might 
follow, and see, if they liked. Thereupon, tucking the shrieking 
victim under his arm, tight pinioned, Blyth started down by the 
Chad toward the village. Of course the rest of the little crew all 
trooped after him, at a distance, however, fearful and ready to rush 
off if he looked round. The pied piper of Hamelin was no less sure 
of small followers. 

The whole w^ay to the village Blyth led them a dance after him. 


JOY. 


159 

Then, pitying the mental pangs of his prisoner, he solemnly ducked 
the latter’s head at a convenient shallow place, and led him, howl- 
ing, with dripping pate, to his mother. As the maternal wrath 
against the culprit was apt, by frequent necessity therefor, to be 
easily aroused, Blyth harangued all tho otlier matrons who w^ere 
attracted to- the scene by the crowd of children. He told them — 
w’hat few, and none there, yet knew— of the escaped convict’s 
nocturnal visit to the cottage up the glen. Then, their curiosity and 
love of horror being roused, he excited their womanly pity tor the 
poor sisters. One who no doubt was afflicted at times, yet whom 
none of them had ever known to hurt a fly, as Blyth affirmed w' th 
honest Kindling zeal, had been so dazed and frightened that all 
knew her supposed terrible fate — lost straying on the moors, it 
seemed. The other lay dangerously ill ; the best and gentlest woman, 
as he, Blyth Berrington, declared, he had ever known from his 
childhood. And all were aware how long she had been his father’s 
tenant. 

The women being moved by natural commiseration for the dead, 
and the speaker’s own earnest and burning indignation that mii^t stir 
hearts always (Blyth’s own words surprising himself, by inflaming 
what he had secretly blamed himself tor as stolidity of feeling re- 
specting poor Magdalen, something as flame-tongues leap higher and 
higher up a bonfire hitherto a cold mass), murmurs of pity brolce 
out among the hearers. Blyth then made his last artful appeal, de- 
scribed the children’s behavior, and, worse, unconscious cruelty to 
one of their elders, a lame, sick creature — pointing to the hot faces, 
the torn and soiled clothes of the baud. The last plea moved all the 
housewives to the very marrow of their feelings. On every side off- 
spring were snatched up, and punishments of such primitive nature 
ensued, to a chorus of infantile howls and squeals, that Blyth fled 
in disamy, feeling as if so many small sucking pigs were being 
butchered. 

Never again would those children make a raid up the glen, he 
knew; and yet, though convinced he had done rightly, he was halt 
ashamed of his harshness, weary and sick of all the events of the 
last few days. 

Back up the glen went he with heavy steps to ask after Rachel. 

Hannah met him with more heavy news. Joy and she had left 
Rachel alone that afternoon for one hour and a half, while they 
both attended the funeral at her own solemn command. Her brave, 
noble spirit would not suffer hindering others in their duty. She 
never asked was Magdalen going to the funeral, perhaps feared to 
know. There was no one to stay with her; she had prayed them 
faintly to send no strange woman ; and indeed her illness lay now 
heavier on the mind than the body. So, as she lay in her weakness, 
with thoughts far beyond earth, the children’s clamor had started 
her— adventurously clamoring at the door, and thrusting tlieir faces 
closely at the little windows. Rising, affrighted, from her sick-bed, 
she w^as met by foolish outcries against the witch! taunts#nd j’eers 
as to where her sister was?— lost! lost! since three days, in the bogs on 
the moor. 

When Hannah reached the cottage, having been set down by 
Farmer Berrington at the foot-stile beside the high-road nearest 


JOY. 


160 

Gold-home, she found the children, unchidden, dancing like a ring 
of gnats about the brown nest from which one bird had down. 
Rachel Estonia seemed utterly overwhelmed and sunken under the 
dreadful intelligence. Ro need now for their anxious consultations, 
how 10 break to her that the cliarge and burden of her life she had 
loved so well was taken from her. 

She never asked was it true, seeming to understand too well their 
late evasive replies as to Magdalen’s absence. 

“ Hannah! Hannah! After all my years of watching to lose her 
so.” 

That was all. 

” The ways of Providence are mysterious,” answered the old 
nurse, with tears raining down her cheeks, though Kaclipl, wdiite 
and still, did not weep. “Think how many a mother brings up 
her child for years and years with care and prayer, and sees it grow 
up to be a sorrow and shame at last. It’s worse to know a soul lost 
than only a body, and there’s no life so hard but what you’ll find 
others that had as hard to bear— or harder.” 

Rachel Estonia raised her dark eyes slowly at that, without 
speech; the words had gone into her heart, and brought some balni 
there. 

That evening, late, Blyth Berrington drove up the spring-cart from 
the farm, with a mattress and blankets laid inside. Joy helped him 
to lift Rachel into it with tender care. Then they locked the cottage 
door, taking almost nothing away with them; indeed, there was 
little to take. 

But, before leaving, Joy, struck by a sudden thought, hastily ran 
back and lit the lantern that still stood in its accustomed place on 
the window-sill. The young girl looked still at its red glow as the 
cart drove away, Hannah sitting at Rachel’s feet, Joy supporting 
the latter’s head on her lap. 

“ There will be no other life. lost while 1 can keep that burning,” 
she thought. 

(The last three nights she had done likewise.) 

And thus that night how strangely was realized Joy’s frequent 
happy dream of having her Aunt Rachel living also with herself 
among the comforts of the Red House Farm, and Rachel s unspoken, 
vague longing to be with the child ol her heart. 


CHAPTER XLVll. 

“ Many a green isle needs must be 
In the deep, wide sea of misery, 

Or the mariner, worn and wan. 

Never thus couid voyage on 
Day and night and night and day 
Drifting on liis weary way. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

• Ay, many flowering islands lie 

In the waters of wide Agony . ’’—Shelley. 

Rachel lay very ill for days at the Red House, during which 
lime Joy nursed her with the most devoted tenderness. Something 
of Rachel’s mantle seemed to have fallen upon the girl with her neW 


JOY. 


161 


experiences in suffering; she was so brave, patient, and showed a 
wonderful sick-room instinct for knowing always what to do that is 
a native gilt. 

Hannah did much, but Joy did more. 

By degrees the sick woman recovered. She had been, indeed, 
long inured to suffering in her life, had long ago learned to walk 
down the grievous valley of life with her eyes fixed on the far light 
she saw shining over the dark hills at the end, unheeding the pains 
and wmunds that afflicted herself alone on the road. Now that slie 
could no longer hope to do anything for Gaspard, could do no 
more for her beloved sister on earth, a strange calm took possession 
of her. 

Joy was the light of her eyes, her support, comfort, care-taker. 
To Rachel, who had not known for years the feeling of being thus 
tended and lovingly surrounded with attention — she who had so long 
given the best of her life in Magdalen’s service — how sweet it was to 
be thus caied for herself! 

As she lay in the black raftered bedroom of the Red House, look- 
ing out on the garden, in a soft bed, the sheets smelling of dried 
lavender, while fresh scents of living flowers came up through the 
unlatched window, Rachel Estonia liked just to w'alch and watch 
Joy’s straight, brisk figure, her young face glowing with dark beauty 
and health, and the quick, helpful stirring of her hands. Some strong 
persons seem by their own healthiness to insult the weakness of the 
sick; others to give something of their own cheery vigor by the very 
touch of their hands. And of the latter was Joy. 

■\Vhen the July days were becoming few, and the hay was long 
gone from the fields, and the bramble in white flower, then, with 
tottering steps, Rachel at last came down into the garden-plot, lean- 
ing on Joy’s shoulder. Blyth carpentered for her a wooden seat 
near the beehives, for she loved to hear their humming (faintly re- 
minding her, maybe, of the heather hills where now she had no 
heart to go). On one side the scarlet-runner beans hid her from 
being seen from the lani, for she shunned being wondered at or 
eyed with pity; on the other, white jasmine stars covered the cob- 
wall, and Joy’s great poppies, with their silky petals, burned against 
the gray moorstone lower course of the house. For days, Rachel 
spoke very little; but there would sit, looking at the hills whence, 
as says David, cometli help, while peace and refreshment flowed 
gently into her soul. And she said to them, she felt somewhat as 
did the Christiana and her family during their stay at the House 
Beautiful, near which lay the Valley of Humiliation, where the 
pilgrims went down and gathered lilies. 

The aunt and niece were both dressed in black, but wore no deeper 
sign of mourning. Rachel abstained, since she was too poor to buy 
crape, and in her heart despised such outward show; Joy, because 
of Farmer Berrington’s earnest request. The good man had been 
sorely exercised by all the gossip during the time of the inquest at 
the farm, together wilh the search for poor Magdalen, and lasting, 
indeed, for days afterward. Himself, his house, and all its inmates 
had been the subject of what he most hated all liis life— that is, the 
idle talk of busy bodies. 

With the generous warmth of youth, Joy would have now readily 


JOY, 


162 

declared herself the daughter of the lost woman whom wrongs and 
her own temperament had distracted. Ay! and the girl would have 
scorned those who scorned her lor her origin, and held her head the 
higher; feeling dimly as if thereby some reparation for the cruelties 
of late could be made to the poor shade one might imagine hovering 
over some ol the reedy marshes, or black sloughs away close under 
the low clouds on the upper moor; where human life VN'as none, and 
but few small birds or wild creatures. 

But Farmer Berrington said his nay, decidedly; and as he had 
accepted Joy tor a daughter- in-law, he was in his rights. “ Why 
raise more talk?” he asked, striking his oak stick on the floor. 
“Can it do good to those that are gone? No! Then leave well 
alone; and tongues will soon stop wagging.” 

To tell the honest truth, the old man was crotchety and uncertain 
in temper the end ot this summer. He was aged and heavy, and, 
having manfully helped day and night in the search for Magdalen, 
had taken a cough and wheezing in his chest that seemed likely not 
to leave him. A man shall do his duty; yet be unhappily racked by 
rheumatics and lumbago therefor. And if so tormented he may be 
testy, however good and upright in his life. No doctor’s embroca- 
tions allayed old Berringlon’s pain much. Nor would he, naturally 
perhaps, listen to frequent messages sent him of the favorite village 
remedies for rheumatisms. These were to put a slab of fat bacon on 
his chest, or be rubbed with benzoline oil night and morning, disre- 
garding the smell. 

“ O la, my dear creature!” Hannah would now cry to all gossips 
who came on this last errand of mercy, “ why, my young mistress 
says he’d burn, the dear soul, if a candle went near lum, like one ot 
them Christian martyrs.” 

Even Blyth saw no use in Joy’s telling more of her parentage. 
Gui bo no? he loo thought As Joy Hay thorn, his sweetheart had 
grown up at the farm; as such he wished her to remain known in 
the country. And when Joy naturally said that by her own name 
of Da Silva she must truly be married, he replied, almost testily, 
that of course they must be married at the nearest big town, and 
have. a license, and keep it all dark. Besides, Sieenie Hawkshaw’s 
version of the story to his idle associates was disregarded even by 
them as tipsy chatter, and, since his horsewhipping, but little had 
been heard of him, for a sufficient reason. Having been urged by 
the witnesses of his defeat to drown his fury in drink, before inflict- 
ing a sevenfold revengeful chastisement on Blyth by breaking every 
bone in his body, and being likewise truely sorely pricked by his 
conscience accusing him of almost murder, the weak-headed young 
man drove back to the Barton in a state of maddened drunkenness. 
Finding another dog-cart ahead in a narrow lane between the im- 
measely high banks of that country, Steenie, with his friend; the 
veterinary surgeon, roared out he would swallow no one’s dust, 
and, lashing his horse furiously, tried to pass the other vehicle. This 
was impossible, for the deep trackway like m.any thereabouts, had 
been only meant in olden days tor pack horses. 

There was a hot race for ju-ecedence down the lane; since, fore- 
seeing trouble, the first-comer, a sporting lawyer from Moortown, 
had also whipped up his beast. Coming down a steep bit of a hill 


JOY. 


163 

at a tearing pace, there was a violent collision. Steenie was pitched 
out, and his leg broken in two places, his dog cart shattered, and the 
mare badly injured. The others came less togriet; but naturally 
the lawyer brought a fine bill of damages, which made old Hawk- 
shaw doubly exasperated with his son, being angry already at the 
injury to his own mare and cart. Thus for weeks Steenie lay at the 
Barton, unable to stir, deserted perforce by his boon companions, 
whom his father now angrily denounced as rogues and idiots! 

Blyth fuither held that, while there were some difiiculties, any- 
way, about the matter of the real name and family history of his 
wife that was soon to be, there would be more in opening the door 
wide to gossip about poor Magdalen and Count Rivello. His convict 
father-in-law was in truth no matter of pride to Blyth, and a secret 
thorn in the flesh to old Berringcon ; though both strove to hide 
their sore feeling from poor Joy. 

But she guessed it. 

“ Let us be married immediately. You will have my name, then. 
That will pul a stop to all questions,” said Blyth, rather dictator- 
ially. 

Then Joy faltered, clasping both her hands on his arm, and stand- 
ing straight and slim beside him, in the shadow of the deep farm- 
porch, while the moon rose over the hills. 

“ Dear, it grieves me to think your future wife should have her 
origin gossiped and wondered over. Besides, the Berringtons have 
been proud of being an honest, upright family for generations. I 
should bring the first stain into their history, and — and — 1 could not 
bear to think that! Oh, let me go away quietly with my Aunt Ka- 
chel, when she is well enough. Indeed, I shall think it quite right, 
if you love some other girl more happy in her parents, and marry 
her.” 

Whereupon, for the first time since many days, Joy began crying, 
but in a quiet way, with much resolve in her manner and voice, 
nevertheless. 

Of course Blyth laughed her to scorn, calling her a silly child, and 
kissing her forehead. But, as she still persisted he should weigh 
the matter, he took both her hands into his owm, and said, with de- 
cision, 

“ My poor darling! I swear to you I will marry no other girl, 
and will hold you to your promise— so there! Never trouble your 
dear little head about a pedigree. Mine will be sufficient for us 
both — so marry me in a fortnight.” 

Whereupon, he felt pleased with himself, with a masterful sense 
of getting his own way always, and as a man does who know^s he is 
doing a right and perhaps fine deed. 

Joy consented to say no more about giving up Blyth. 

The girl’s heart was sw^elled with a strange pride, that kept telling 
herself she should be judged by her own worth, and not made to 
bear shame for her father’s sins or her mother’s misfortunes. Never- 
theless, with a newly broken spirit, she was aware that, as this world 
is ordered, it most often is thus! 

Yes, she would marry Blyth, because she believed no one else 
could ever love him with such great love, such devotion, as herself 
—and that forever. Her loving soul, deep and true, had chosen him 


164 


JOY. 


as master, and his will was her law. Yet she felt a little chillness 
at heart, slight as the first frosts of September nights, aware that 
Blyth and his father would have smoked their pipes o’ nights wiih 
greater ease and comfort of mind had Gaspard da Silva died unfreed 
in his prison up j'^onder, and had not Magdalen’s sorrowful affliction 
been blazoned and magnified by vulgar longues; though doubtless 
the Berrringtons had borne much willingly for the sake of their duty 
to God and love of Joy’s own self. 

That was all! Ah, well, thought the girl; Who is perfectly hap- 
py? 

But she would by no means consent to be married till September 
was over, out of respect to hex mother’s memory. A.nd Rachel, 
however seldom she spoke, and almost never interfered — being like 
one whose occupation was to foster the wretched only, and finds that 
gone— gravely blessed her on hearing her resolve, saying she was 
right. 

Joy wanted to pass some time in secret thought, and io try to feel 
true sorrow for her mother’s loss! 

Shocked she had oeen, as the great change to seriousness told, that 
gave depth to the young girl’s expression; most grieved and horror- 
strieken. But as Magdalen had relegated her own duties to Rachel 
and Hannah, whom Joy felt with a tightened heart she loved (even 
the latter) far, far better, so the poor girl was repentant of what 
seemed her own haidheartedness, and strove to feel a rightful daugh- 
ter’s sorrow for the mother Magdalen might have been. 

Of her dead father she tried to think less, slirinking from the aw- 
ful questions as to his future fate that must arise at times. And yet 
there was a germ, a natural instinct, in her heart, though never fos- 
tered by circumstances, that made her also sorry not to be more 
sorry ! 

So Joy asked to be left to pass the next two months almost in per- 
fect seclusion at the farm; which wish, being fulfilled, it thence fol- 
lowed that few, if any, in the sparsely peopled neighborhood knew 
of Rachel’s presence there, oi, if known, it was attributed to Farmer 
Berrington’s goodness of heart, pitying her bereavement. The days 
passed softly and still, therefore, and the wheat-fields ripened in 
August, and the apples grew red and yellow in September, thickly 
hung among the leaves in the orchard. 

It was a serious time, and yet not without its sweetness. 

“ In tyme of harvest mer}’- it is ynough; 

Peres and apples hangen on bough. 

The hay ward bloweth mery his home ; 

In every felde ripe is come ; 

The grapes hangen on the vyne; 

Swete is trewe love and fyne.’^ 

Of “ trewe love,” in spite of her chastened mood and daily hoiirs 
spent sewing beside Rachel in mostly silent reflection, Joy and Blyth 
tasted still some sweet moments. Many an evening they wandered 
together across the low meadows to the Chad; and there smelled 
the creamy, meadow sweet spires heavy on the air, and watched the 
kingfisher’s blue, quick gleam, or the fish rise. 

But Blyth was away several times on business relating to his Aus- 
tralian property, which he thought it well to settle before his honey- 
moon. And more— there was some talk of old Ilawkshaw selling 


JOY. 


165 


the best portion, far more than halt, of his land; which, fitting nice- 
ly into the Red Farm ground at the fattest part of the Chad valley, 
would make a fair and pleasant-lying, if ’ not a fine, estate of the 
Beiringtons’ freehold, if thereunto added. The cause was strange 
enough — as follow^s: 

Steenie Hawkshaw, lying helpless and ill-cared for at the Barton, 
with only his father for company and their old housekeeper, a cross 
hag, had besought leave to send for a certain widow to help nurse 
him and while away the time. She was a handsome woman, older 
than himself, whose society in IVJoortown, Steenie (keeping it dark) 
a good deal affected. As to her character, as Hannah remarked, 
“ There is little call to talk about what there’s so little o/.” 

Three weeks later the countryside was linging with the news that 
old Hawkshaw himself had taken the widow to wife, in a secret and 
sudden way. Young Steenie, hardly yet able to use his crutches, 
found himself duped, deserted, abused for his debts by his old fa- 
ther and stepmother, and likely to be disinherited of wliat little re- 
mained to the flawkshaws, in favor of the new mistress of the Bar- 
ton, the old man’s debts being fitting parents to those of the son. 

Poor Steenie! His retribution had come sharp and swift. Bl.yth 
felt even sorry for him; if better brought-up he might have been a 
gay and pleavSant -tempered fellow enough. As soon as he could well 
move he left the Barton, pale and miserable-looking, and went to 
Bristol to a cousin for a while, finding home unendurable. 

So all things had regained serenity and a regular swing once more 
of duties to do, and duties done, at the Red House. The weather 
was pleasant, some plentiful showers calling out the dried sweetness 
of tlie earth too. And all were fairly well aecain in health, which 
means so much of happiness in the daily reckoning. Only old Dick 
was ill, and that in a strange way, which now requires being told. 


CHAPTER XLYIII. 

“ Don't expose me ! Just this once I 
This was the first and only time, I’ll swear — 

Look at me!- see, I kneel !--the only time, 

I swear, I ever cheated.”— B rowning. 

“ Tam o’ the Lin grew dourie and douce. 

And he sat on a stane at the end o’ his house; 

‘ What ails, auld chiel?’ He looked haggard and thin. 

‘ I’m no very cheery,’ quo’ Tam o’ the Liu. 

“ Tam o’ the Lin lay down to die. 

And his friends w^hispered softly and wofully, 

‘ We’ll buy you some masses to scour away sin ;’ 

‘ And drink at my lyke-wake,’ quo’ Tam o’ the Lin.” 

Tam o’ the Lin. 

It was in the last days of August that old Dick took ill, owing to 
a fall he got when standing on a cart full of wheat-sheaves, helping 
to pitchfork them into the\ipper barn, and stepping back a little too 
far. It was a heavy fall, and injured his back badly, so that he 
could only he without doing a stroke of work that autumn. 

Here was a chance for Rachel Estonia to be once more useful, and 
immediately she seized it. 


166 


JOY. 


Hitherto, the lonely sister had seemed during: the past months of 
the summer as one onl}'^ half awake from a terrible, troubled dream, 
however sweetly her great dark eyes smiled on those around. Or 
again, looking at her pale and worn, though st;ll noble features, 
you might fancy her a nun who, after spending the best of her life 
in solitary seclusion and religious contemplation, had been bj’^ some 
chance brought back to the world and set down by a happy hearth. 
She seemed in a strange land, and stilly smiled on its ways and do- 
mestic happiness, but was too old herself to learn them; there was 
no more springtime for her. She moved among them like a statue 
almost, finding nothing of a place or need for her services in that 
easy-ordered household, where none had much work, and all only 
strove to spare her; where no one was ailing. 

When old Dick took ill, however, Rachel got her call. She went 
daily to his cottage— a thriftless, untidy place it was, though he had 
a wife, but no children at home. Rachel doctored him, cooked and 
tidied, read to him, even sat up there at nights often. And, above 
all, she bore patiently with old Dick’s crossness and churlish nature. 
New energy and her old independence seemed to return with this 
charge to her body and mind. 

For some three weeks Rachel was thus busied; but old Dick 
showed small signs of recovery. His back might be somewhat bet- 
ter, but in mind he only grew more broken-down and hopeless of 
health; he slept little and badly, being troubled with terrible dreams, 
from which he would wake up tremWing and all in a cold sweat, so 
his wife told, who was a weak-minded, helpless sort of creature, a 
good soul enough. Old Dick swore so fearfully at her for saying 
this, that Rachel severely reprimanded him. Though grumbling, 
Dick had come to adore the latter in a frightened, awed way as his 
good angel, the being who alone brought comfort and help to his 
dark hours. Yet at first it bad been only by Blyth’s own presence 
and firm desire that he could be prev«iled on to let “ the black 
witch ” examine his injuries, and lay Ihe pillows more easily for his 
sore bones. 

So Dick grew worse and worse, sinking daily from being a tough 
and hale old fellow into a feeble dotard, only showing vigor in his 
flashes of ill-temper; and even these, mourned his wife'^ grew fewer. 

One September night, Rachel, who had just lain down to sleep, 
was roused by a message that old Dick was dying, and wished to 
see her at once. Hastily dressing, she hurried down the lane with 
Joy. who, having heard the news^likewise, had sprung up to accom- 
pany her; and Blyth, who, not having yet gone to bed, came to take 
charge of both. 

It was dark down the lane, where the trees, still in full leafage, 
though yellowing in patches, met overhead. But they all remem- 
bered afterward how the hunter's moon, hanging overhead in the 
sky in a great silver disk -seeming larger than m any other month 
— shed a soft radiance over all the open country round. A night 
for sweet thoughts and hopefulness only; not for those of a sinful, 
troubled spirit, it seemed. 

Rachel Estonia went alone quickly into the cottage. Blyth and 
Joy waited outside for her, and whispered at times, walking up and 


JOY. 


161 

down the lane together arm-in-arm, as affianced lovers might; 
though they shunned being seen by other eyes indulging in any such 
demonstrations of atiection in a way old Farmer Berrington quite 
tailed to understand. 

Although they began by speaking of Dick and his possibly ap- 
proaching end with pity, somehow soon the broken talk took a more 
tender turn. Blylh was saying, 

“ In one fortnight now, dear — Have you finished sewing the 
wedding-dress?.” 

A woman’s sharp call rang out from the cottage. It was Rachel’s 
voice. The door was flung open, and the light of the cottage interior 
gleamed in the lane. Both ran to the threshold, where Rachel was 
steadying herself by the door-post, her breast heaving, saying, with 
strong, self-enforced outward quiet, yet as one whose mind was al- 
most beside itself, 

“Come in here— listen! Dick says that Magdalen is not dead ; 
that he helped her to escape beyond Moortown!” 

It was true enough. They hurried in, but the fresh witnesses to 
Dick’s repeated confession only confirmed its evident truth. The 
miserable old man declared, between gasps for breath, that he could 
bear the tortures of his conscience no longer, and would make a 
clean breast of it all; for his fall, he reiterated, was a punishment, he 
knew — ay, he knew! — and yet he had told no lie either, nor hurt the 
woman. But still, when Mistress Rachel had prayed and read to 
him, he had felt like one of the damned, knowing what she had 
suffered with grief for her mad sister's loss. So, as he had been 
taken that night as it death was coming, he would tell first— ay, ay ! 

Blyth bade him go on, then, and be quick about it. 

The day Magdalen was lost, Dick related, he had been sent to 
Moortown with the wagon in the afternoon. And so, when about 
some three miles on nis way, he saw a woman-creature dragging 
herself over the moors like a hunted hare. She made frantic signs 
to him to stop, but he would pay no heed at first, recognizing her, 
and thinking it was merely some silly-Sally craze; till she kept run- 
ning along the road beside him. At last, plainly ready to drop with 
fatigue, she showed an odd-shapea bag she held strung over her arm 
under her cloak, and took out a gold sovereign from it, which she 
held up. 

This seemed so strange an act, that Dick cried whoa! to his horses, 
out of pure curiosity, he averred. He turned over the gold piece, 
rang it, thought it a good one. Meantime, Magdalen implored him 
so urgently to give her a lift in the wagon, saying she was so tired, 
so tired, and that -Farmer Berrington, her good friend, would not 
refuse her such a little service, that Dick complied. 

After resting awhile in the wagon, getting near Moortown, she be- 
gan making minute inquiries of Dick as to the neighborhood and 
roads, and how to go to London. As he got suspicious at this, and 
spoke of driving her back, Magdalen prayed and besought him not 
to tell she had gone away; adding a wild, confused tale of having 
been ill-used by the Hawkshaws, whom she hated, and that she was 
merely going away for a short time, a very little while! It was so 
dull and lonely in'the glen. 


168 


JOT. 


If only Dick would help her, she would give him hve more sover- 
eigns — ten ! And she assured him again and again she was soon 
cmning back to her sister. 

So he agreed; and at her request drove her through Moortown, 
she sitting back under the hood of the wagon, so as not to be seen. 
She bade Dick go and buy her a bonnet, and a bright little shawl 
she pinned over her bosom; so that, when she stepped out of the 
wagon, you would not have known her. And she did up her hood 
and old cloak in a bundle; “ for she w^as powerful cunning.” Then 
Dick got her some tea and food at a respectable woman’s house he 
knew of. Lastly, he saw her into the mail-coach, which passed just 
at that hour through Moortown. And she had laughed in a pleased 
way to herself, and told Dick she was going to London, and perhaps 
to Paris; and had taken her seat with such a sensible, quiet way, 
like a fine lady in the way she spoke and demeaned herself, that 
Dick, groaning, declared it had quite relieved his conscience, believ- 
ing she knew wmll enough how to take care of herself. After the 
coach was gone, he had to hurry back to the Red House, being late, 
and his horses- were all of a lather — Master Blyth might recall speak- 
ing sharply to him about f hem, too. 

That was all he could tell. Good Lord! he knew no more. 

And, oh! (with a heart-rending groan) let no one ask him to give 
back the money; for it was all spent in drink or tobacco, or if not 
spent — Dick, fearing he was dying, writhed between the torments 
of his greed and his conscience — they might find some of it hidden 
in a hollow of the eartlien floor, under one of the bed posts. But 
surely folk might leave it to him until he died, at least ; for now he 
had told all, and cleansed his soul to the best of his power. Ah, 
Mistress Rachel need not look at him like that, with those eyes of 
hers, in reproach. He was only a miserable old man, who had 
meant no harm. Speak up for him, Miss Joy dear! and let him keep 
the money, for he loved it; and ask the young master — who was al- 
w^ays cruel hard upon him — to let him die with a roof over his head. 

This was Dick’s confession. 

“ But, ohj how did my mother get all that money?” asked Joy, 
innocently, in -v^mnder. 

Blyth touched her gently, in secret signal not to inquire more 
then : for Rachel had clasped her hands to her head at that question. 
Tiie girl had never been told that last dark detail of her father's 
flight from the cottage. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

“ Weun Zivei von einander scheideri, 

So geben sie sich die Hand; 

Und fangen an zu weinen, 

Und seufzeu ohne End.” 

” Wir haben nicht geweinet, 

• ^ Wir seufzten nicht ‘ Weh !’ und * Ach 1’ 

Die Thranen und die Seufzer, 

Die kaiuen hiutennacli.”— Heine. 

A LO^TETi’s parting! It is hard and sad enough at all times, yet 
how much worse when it is nut the will of a remorseless fa\e, 


JOY. 169 

weighing equally heavy on both, but the deliberate wish of one who 
still loves, and is opposed by the other. 

“ You shall not go. I will not hear of it, Joy; I will not bear it! 
Or else I will grant this much — marry me first, and then go and 
search for your mother.” 

” Oh, Blyth! dear, dear Blyth! don’t wring my heart with oppos- 
ing me in this. How could I, a daughter, marr}^ you and teel happy 
— many and expect a blessing from Heaven on our union, if I had 
neglected or even delayed my first duty, to find my poor, unhappy 
mother?” 

” But, Joy, think of me. Those two years I was out in Austra- 
lia, I was only waiting, hoping for you, thinking of you. And now, 
when I come back and find happiness almost in my grasp, almost I 
to ask me to give it up! Any man would think this too hard.” 

” But I shall come back to you and the Red House, Blyth, if I live. 
Then remember my promise to my mother. She solemnly made me 
promise not to leave my Aunt Rachel till she returned I Oh, dear 
love, do you think I don’t feel it too?” 

‘‘Don’t cry, darling; that is like the last straw. What a miser- 
able, tantalizing life it is on earth! Yes; you will come back, if it 
lies in your power — that I believe. But what changes and chances 
every day brings, especially in separation, illness, dangers, and 
troubles of all kinds, perhaps coldness and loss of affection. For 
there! you are beautiful, Joy — and you have not seen the world.” 

‘‘ 1 have not seen it. 1 am going out into it a poor, homeless, house- 
less wanderer, Blyth; searching for another strayed soul. And, if 1 
thought you could trust me with as great trust and love as mine, 
dear, toward you, it would cheer me up; for perfect love, I have 
heard, casteth out fear. But if you doubt me, and distrust me, 
then — ” 

Poor Joy could not finish her words. Something seemed to rise 
up and down in her throat, as if her loving heart, ^welled with pain 
and bitterness, was fluttering there. 

Blyth felt heartily ashamed of himself. 

Already, in this altercation, their first quarrel, he had said hard 
things that now seemed brutal to himself concerning Joy’s father 
and mother. Her mother, even at the seasons when in full posses- 
sion of her reasoning faculties, had never shown a right and natural 
maternal devotion to her daughter, he said, lathei, George 
Berringlon, had reared her, been a father to her for years; and, now 
the old man was declining, it was cruel to spoil his last happiness. 
What would he be without hks beloved Joy in the house? 

(And indeed she was the old man's pet; his last gleam of sun- 
shine, so to speak; his adopted, dear daughter.) 

But, in spite of all this, the girl’s resolve to set out with her Aunt 
Rachel immediately in search of their poor wanderer was adamant 
to Blyth’s anger. It hurt her cruelly, but she would not flinch. 

ISo now, being ashamed of himself, feeling that in her self- sacrifice 
the woman was far braver and higher and nobler than himself, Blyth 
bowed his head and said, huskily, 

‘‘ Then go, darling. I will not hinder you by another word. But 
God knows when you will come back to me!” 

” Yes, God knows,” answered the girl he loved, with a simple, 


JOY. 


170 

firm trust, as she echoed the words, that made him feel still more 
self reproved. 

Blyth and Joy were together in the farm-parlor during this scene. 

It was the morrow after old Dick’s strange confession, and the 
day was now wearing to late afternoon. 

In the early morning Blyth had risen and ridden to Moortown, 
without waiting for breakfast or telling bis purpose. He wished to 
make inquiries, as the mail-coach passed through Moortown that 
morning on its down journey, as to whether anything could be dis- 
covered further as to Magdr.len’s flight. When he rode back to the 
farm through a steady drizzling rain from the hills, Blyth carried 
the news that, so far as could yet be known, the woman described 
by him had certainly gone toward London, In his heart he then felt 
he had done what was right that morning, and deserved Joy’s 
thanks, which were always so sweetly given. He struggled bravely 
against dim and evil promptings of the worser human nature that is 
in us all, which whispered that this future mother-in-law of his was 
like a clog round his neck; and that tor lier own sake as well as his 
happiness and that of her daughter, it was almost a pity she had 
been saved from the Blackabrook that night she ran off to the “ cold 
country!” or, however horrible a fate, the poor soul might have had 
as peaceful an end, perhaps, had she indeed been sucked in living 
inlo the black mud of one of those dreary morasses to which the 
country folk gave the terrible name of the “ stables of the moor.” 
Better that than to be robbed and murdered, maybe, for her money 
in London. 

Blyth was of a disposition that grudged no time or labor, provided 
a good result came to be shown for it. But it vexed him now to 
think how he had wasted a week’s fine weather and the work of 
many men scouring the country far and wide for a woman who had 
got clear away— and old Dick, no doubt, laughing in his sleeve, the 
hoary villain! 

Still, as he trotted Brownberry home, Blyth urged his lagging 
mind up to a dogged resolve on starting himself with Miss Rachel 
to London. He would not fail in his efforts to find Joy’s mother 
now, at the end. Even their wedding might be delayed one week; 
for if, after a fortnight’s fresh research, they could still discover no 
trace of Magdalen, well, then it would be a useless job trying further. 
Meanwhile, he would trust Joy to look after his father’s health— ay, 
better than himself; while the old man would care liis best for her, 
the darling. 

Thus Blyth had all settled within his breast; then told his news 
and proposition to Rachel, who was out in the rain waiting for him 
down by the cottage (where Dick was still alive.) She had divined ^ 
the young man’s errand in her heart. She earnestly thanked him, 
but said no word more; neither to gainsay nor yet to approve. The 
poor man was dazed in her mind by want of sleep and the multitude 
of new thoughts that had whirled in her head through the night. 
She had only been able to tell herself that but one thing was clear— 
her oion duty. Let Joy settle for herself; and Blyth with his heart. 
Rachel must not come between these lovers. 

Joy, meanwhile, at the farm guessed, too, where Blyth was gone. 
But she did not go out, like her aunt, to wait in the rain. She had 


JOY. 171 

much to do, to prepare, and direct; for if Hannah was the hands 
she was now the young head of the household. 

After dinner, Blyth, seeing an anxious, set look, as of trouble, on 
Joy’s face, no doubt witli thoughts of her mother, fears succeeding 
relief, felt he could do no good, so had betaken himself to the fields. 
There was much to see to in person, if he was to go on his wild-goose 
chase so soon (but he only called it that very secretly; even within 
his own heart it seemed base toward Joy). By evening he came in, 
well soaked with the ceaseless rain. Not that he cared for a wet 
jacket. The true damper he felt was when Joy called him aside 
into the parlor, where no one would interrupt them, and told him, 
with many most loving, humble thanks for his otter, that yet she 
must go herself, and not he! 

Now at that hour before supper, a man who has had a long ride 
in the morning, and done hard work all afternoon, and felt himself 
generous in his battlings with sclhsh promptings, does not feel in the 
mood to receive in the best maimer disagreeable news. 

Blyth did not bear opposition very well. He had something 
rugged in his nature; a far away straiu of fierce Northman’s blood, 
inherited through long generations from his ancestors, that made him 
chafe when fate or others’ wills crossed his; a different nature from 
the easy- tempered, indolent folk of those parts. 

So now, though Joy had won the day, he was sorely vexed at 
heart. 

There was silence in the parlor, for, it seemed, a long time. The 
tall clock standing in the corner ticked on. The rain still pattered 
down with ceaseless pertinacity. Blyth caught himself thinking 
sullenly that it would rain for days now, prdbably, and that he 
could do little good at work on the farm, and might as well be away , 
except that his old father w'as not strong enough for it to be right to 
leave him if Joy were gone. Several days’ rain, and bad for deli- 
cate women to be journeying; while to the threshing his presence 
would make little difference. Sa3"s a well-known but defamatory 
rhyme of that moor-country, 

“The west wind always hring:s wet weather, 

The east wind cold and wet together: 

The south wind surely brings us rain, 

The north wind blows it back again.” 

Fitter, patter! drip, drip! And still Joy sat without stirring at one 
side of the lar^e mahogany dinuer-tabie, looking away out of the 
low, wide window fringed with her favorite creepers, wl)ose wet 
tendril-fingers, tapped the panes; her thoughts directed even far, far 
further than the distant gaze of her e^^es. 

Arid still Blyth Berrmgton, sitting at the end of the table, on 
which he had planted his elbow in a sturdy, aggrieved manner, rested 
his head in the hollow of his hand, watching her. He seemed to 
note as never before the details of the old room he had known from, 
boyhood; for he was asking himself how it would look soon with- 
out that one figure to which his eyes alwaj-s turned, wherever she 
might be, as to their center of attraction. The walls wainscoted in 
dark wood, the low ceiling, whitewashed, but crossed by beams of 
wood unspoiled by paint; the deep window recesses, with their cup- 


JOY. 


172 

board seats and heavy lattices, generally in fine days opened outward 
into the garden, while Joey’s rose-leaves were dried on the sill. 

It was a dark looin, pleasant to him hitherto; it might easily be- 
come gloomy. 

The heavy table filling all the center of the room shone with a 
mellow, (lark glow, kindly answering to the care and frequent 
elbow-grease of many years. The same tale was silently told by the 
solid, square arm-chairs and the big sideboard on which stood some 
silver cups won at agricultural shows and at wrestling-matches. 
Two stutted foxes’ heads and some brushes, the spoils of his own 
youthful exploits, adorned the mantel-shelf. Sopie shelves of old- 
fashioned books, some on farriery, the others mostly godly, and that 
had. belonged to his dead mother, represented the literature of the 
iierrington household. 

Most comfortable; most respectable! 

But of lightness, of color, of beautiful outline, or aught to cheer 
the eyes, what was there in the room but Joy herself — with her dark, 
glorious eyes, her rich complexion, the exquisite poise of her beau- 
tiful head, and the noble, easy grace of her figure as she sat there so 
still? She was like a splendid exotic flow^er, a tropical bright-plum- 
aged bird, under a gray Northern sky— and she was going away! 
who knew 'for how long? 

A sigh from Blyth broke the silence. 

Joy started as it thrilled at the light sound. 

“ You are wet, you are all wet, Blyth, and I have been keeping 
you here. How selfish, how careless of me!” 

“ Never mind my wetting. It won’t hurt me,” curtly replied the 
young man, 5’-et not ungraciously, rather with gruff resignation. 

‘ Only I wanted to ask, Joy — if you must go on this unknown ex- 
pedition — will you not want, or at least be helped, by some small 
loan, for your traveling and inquiries will cost money, you see. 
What is mine would have been yours in a fortnight, or one day less, 
dear, from now. Consider it yours beforehand, and let me feel I 
am giving that much share, if I’m not to do more, in the search.” 

Joy’s cheeks glowed of a beautiful crimson for a few seconds. 

“You were always so kind, always so generous!” (Ah! was lie? 
That smote him in the conscience.) “ But indeed we have been al- 
ready far too m uch like the plagues of Egypt upon you. Aunt Rachel 
and I have got some money truly ; enough to last us for some months. ’ ’ 

“ Plagues of Egypt! What an idea! More like the Israelites, 
w'ho w'ere a blesseti people, for whom the plagues were sent because 
they were ill-treated. But excuse me, Joy, dearest, you can’t have 
much.’’' 

“ Indeed, dear Blyth, though I must not explain how, we have 
got a good deal. If it is not "enough, then indeed I might borrow 
some, because I can repay it from my little fortune when I come of 
age.” 

“For some months— and then more? How long, in Heaven’s 
name, do you suppose you will be away? A year?— say two years 
just. as w^ell! Well, well, well! I will say no more against it all.” 

Thereupon Blyth rose, and, walking heavily, went out of the room 
aud up the shallow, dark stairs; each of his* steps echoed dully by 
the beats in Joy’s heart. 


JOY. 


173 


CHAPTER L. 

“ Each thinp has its work to do, its mission to fulfill, 

The wind that blows, the plant that f^rows, the waters never still. 

Then need we ask, ‘ Have we a task?’ ’Tis graven on each breast; 
Then do life’s duties manfully, and never mind the rest. 

“ Gentle words and kindly deeds are never thrown away. 

But bring unlooked-for harvest on some cloudy autumn day. 

We are but stewards of our wealth, of all by us possessed : 

Then do life’s duties manfully, and never mind the rest."— Song. 

Joy had not wept, nor even shown much outward signs of grief, 
during her interview with Blj’tli. The unusual and strange con- 
sciousness of his being displeased and opposed to her wishes — to 
what she felt a sacred duty not to be argued about -had chilled her 
heait. 

But now she rose too; slipping softly up to her own room, almost 
as it she were an ungrateful creature who had no longer rigid to go 
boldly about the old house that had sheltered her. She found Han- 
nah, spectacles on nose, standing ponderousl}^ beside an open oak 
wardrobe, in which she was laying fresh lavender, with most tender 
fingers, on a delicate white dress lying folded on the shelf — Joy’s 
wedding-gown! — while all around the room lay little piles of clothes, 
made ready for a journey. 

“ Oh, Hannah, Hannah!” And, without another word of expla- 
nation, down bent Joy, holding back her nurse’s fat arms from con- 
tinuing their work, and laid her face on the broad, taithful breast; 
where it had been so often come for refuge in childhood; murmur- 
ing now, and rubbing her head to and fro as if in pain. 

” Oh, my doatie, my lamb! Sit down on that stool there, beside 
me. It’s hard, it is hard on j^ouug hearts! But there, don’t fret; 
Master Blyth may be a hit vexed now, but he’ll think all the more 
uf you for going, in the long run.” 

So Hannah babbled, in broken consolation, and often merely fool- 
ish ejaculations. But she understood, and her silliest fondness 
seemed to do Joy’s foolish young heart more good at this weak mo- 
ment than even Rachel’s high example; who always herself felt that 

“ Because right is riglit, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.” 

Rachel, at that moment, was praying, not packing. She was 
praying for guidance and pi’otection'on their journey, and uttering 
thanksgiving praises. She had little, indeed, to pack. She was 
kneeling at the seat of her open window, her eyes gazing at the far 
hills, wiiile the tide of inexpressible thankfulness that filled her 
heart still surged high. She had been like a lone bird pining for 
the mate of her years of secluded captivity. Now— whatever might 
come more of new sorrow or cares for herself!— yet how joyfully 
would she take up her old beloved burden, at thought that Mag- 
dalen, her sister, had not been swallowed up quick as they that go 
down’ into the pit; that she miglit haply live to gaze steadfastly at 
the river of death with a clear mind, and pass down into it with a 
glad heart and singing. 

As Rachel had perforce led a hermit’s life, one who little by little 
forgets the common ways of men, so to her Joy’s lot seemed so bliss- 


JOY. 


174 

f ul in past and future, she had tailed to notice the girl’-S small pres- 
ent trouble in disappointing her lover, displeasing old Berrington, 
and putting off her own wedding-day, that was so near, so near! for 
an indefinite time. The elder woman walked on lone heights in 
spirit; but the young girl down in the valley felt so earthly she could 
only look up thither, and humbly hope some day to climb higher 
herself. 

But it must now be explained that it was old Hannah who had 
secretly provided the necessary expenses for the journey. In the 
first ten minutes that she heard of the projected plan, the good old 
soul had come secretly to Kachel and Joy as they consulted together, 
offering in a humbly joyful manner quite a large sum for their use. 
Law! it was only her wages she had put by in the savings bank all 
the years she was at the Red House. Call it a loan — what they 
pleased. They must take it, she insisted, bless their hearts! It was 
all left in her will to her darling IMiss Joy, anyway. How could it 
be better spent than to assist in finding her dear lost mistress? Why, 
only that she would likely prove more hinderance than help, what 
with her age and weight and rheumatism, and being a necessity now 
to old Beirington and his wants, Hannah would gladly set forth 
once more herself. 

Good Hannah! So she would; although so thankful these quiet 
years to be at rest. But indeed she weighed nearly sixteen stone 
now, and found it hard to move about with briskness, notwithstand- 
ing her still great strength; and she was short of breath from stout- 
ness. 

The three women had consulted together, and agreed that proper 
pride w^ould forbid Rachel, and even Joy, from being beholden more 
deeply to the two Berrington men, unless it became quite necessary 
for poor Magdalen’s sake. Both father and son had been so kind, 
so good for years, to the women and child ^vho had taken refuge 
with them, that how' could these latter now borrow from their purses 
to go on a journey which could bring little gladness to the good old 
farmer or to Blyth? For, alas! might not Magdalen in future raise 
fresh difficulties to the marriage, even in her sane seasons? Mho 
knew? best not to think about it! 

CHAPTER LI. 

“ La pauvre fleur disait au papillou c6Ieste, 

Ne fuis pas ! 

Vois comme nos destins sout diffdrents, je reste, 

Tu t’en vas ! 

Mats h61as ! Pair t’eraporte et la terre m’enchaine 
Sort cruel ! 

Je voudrais embauiner ton vol de mon haleine 
Dans le ciel ! 

Mais non, tu vas trop loin ! Parmi des fleurs sans nombre 
Vous fuyez, 

Et moi je reste seul a voir hion ombre 
A mes pieds ! 

******* 

“ Vivre ensemble, d’abord ! c’est le bien n6cessaire, 

Et r6el ; 

Aprds on pent cboisir au hasard, ou la terre, 

Ou le ciel.”— V ictor Hugo. 

And so the next afternoon Rachel Estonia was gone, wdth her 
young niece, the pride and darling of the Red House! Gone! 


JOY. 


175 

It had heen raining all day as Blyth prophesied, heavy showers 
succeeding each other. But before they started the rain had ceased 
awhile, the sun shone out in a taint gleam on a dripping, misty, but 
sweet-scented moorland world, blue-black cloud-armies retreating, 
slowl)'- rolling up their forces, over the hills, while a rainbow span- 
ning half the vale gleamed in greeting to the departing travelers. 

“ See, dear Blyth,” Joy whispered aside, pressing his arm. ” It 
is a sign of hope, ‘ the bow in the cloud.’ ” * 

Blyth made an effort to smile upon her, but with poor success. 
The strong man felt tied hand and foot by withes that, however 
seemingly weak, yet he could not burst like Samson, for they were 
ties of filial affection toward his father. The old farmer, after ap- 
pearing unwell all the day before, had a rather severe attack of ill- 
ness in the night. But for this, Blyth would have insisted on going 
to London for a week with the two women, and giving them the 
protection of his presence and traveled experience, and (secretly) the 
help of his purse, though they should not know that. What could 
they, two helpless creatures, know of the means to be tried in such 
a case; how bear up against the weariness, rebuffs, trials, disappoint- 
ments? And here was he, strong and able for the task, bound to 
stay in comfort under the old roof- tree! 

There was no other course now possible. Blyth dared not leave 
his father alone in old age and sickness, even for the sake of his 
love. 

And then Joy had sweetly tried to console him. It must all be 
for the best. Her mother might be tempted back by Rachel and Joy 
herself, but would only flee further from sight of Blyth, who had no 
lawful control over her either. 

As to ways and means. “We will ask the police, as you say; and 
then— trust in Providence.” 

Concerning Rachel, she bade them farewell with prolonged and 
warmly grateful hand-clasps, but with few words and those deeply 
meant. Her dark eyes were shining as if they were fixed on a mov- 
ing pillar of fire to guide her in their wanderings. She had no doubt 
of the success of their quest; but the when and where and how it all 
might end, that her faith did not seek to foresee! 

Blyth had a carriage and horses hired from Moortown to take 
them away. That was all he could do; but neither the old gig nor 
his own new dog- cart were fit yehicles, he considered, tor them on 
such a day; but, please the Pates, when Joy came back— 

Then the farewells were over, and the carriage started down the 
lane, Joy looking back and smiling as long as she could see them. 
Hannah weeping loudly, but giving encouraging waves of a large 
pocket handkerchief. Farmer Berrington on the other side of the 
gate (tor he had insisted on coming out, though the air was so damp) 
giving dry sniffs and fetching wheezy sighs, with both hands planted 
on his staff. 

Gone! 

How different it was from the evening some fourteen years ago, 
when the farm-wagon had stopped at the gate, and set down a nurse 
and a little child! thought Blyth. He watched the carriage at every 
curve and winding of the lane at which he could still descry it; fol- 
lowing it with troubled gaze from under his bent brows, his heart 


heavy and growing cold within him. Yet $urely they would return, 
perhaps, before a month was over; or in two months; or at latest by 
Christmas. 

A.nd then Elyth gave his arm to his old father, and helped him 
into the house. 

Thus the elderly woman and the young girl went out into the high- 
ways of the great worid, along its iron roads, and into the roar and 
hurry, the splendor and squalor, and crowded loneJiuess of its great 
cities. 

They left the pleasant moorland valley, that had so long sheltered 
them, far away. And in a few da3^s — what with the rush of new 
sights, sounds, and ideas, the excitement of their strange cha-e, the 
false hopes, disappointment, fluctuations of dull despair, struggles 
of reviving faith and energy, or brave efforts to hide fears fro’ii the 
other — both soon felt as it they had lived weeks since leaving the 
Red House on that sunlit, wet evening. ■ 

Both grew homesick, and both would have been heartsick, but 
for finding now and again they were on the right track; that duty 
was leading them, although through devious ways and difficulties, 
on the same path as the will-o’-the-wdsp soul they were pursuing; 
stray news coming to cheer them, like the igiiis-fatuus light. 

chapter Lll. 

Der Herbstwiud riittelt die Baume, 

Die Nacht ist feucht und kalt; 

Gelnillt iui grauen Mautel, 

Reite ich eiusam im Wald. 

“ ‘ Und wie ich reite, so reiten 
Mir die Gedankeii voraus ; 

Sie tragen inich leicht und lustig 
Nach meiuer Liebsteu Haus.’ 

“ Es sauselt der Wind in den Bliittern, 

Es spricht der Eichenb lum; 

‘ Was willst du thdrichten Reiter, 

Mit deinein thdrichten Traum?’ ’’—Heine. 

The autumn slowly waned in the Chad valley, while, as Victor 
Hugo has sung of his own land, “ the rain and the sun seemed to 
have rusted the woodlands.” And still Joy had not come back to 
the Red House. 

Daj^s grew shorter, darkness longer; the lanes were mudd3% the 
hedges black and dripping; rains w"ere heavy and mists rolling; the 
cold came creeping in, and on and on, till it took the air, and the 
surface of the earth, and held the world fast in its grip. And 3mt, 
even when a white Christmas came— -a fine old-fashioned one, as 
people said, when icicles and snow made pleasanter good cheer and 
roaring fires within doors, such as the farm was famous for — Joy 
returned not! 

Farmer Befrington was more or less ailing and helpless all that 
winter. Again and again, when Blyth, hoping the old man was bet- 
ter, made all his preparations ready in secret to be off for a week’s 
hast3'- traveling to see Joy again, and hear her dear voice, if only lor 


JOY. 


177 

a (lay, and perhaps be ot help to her too, so surely did some fresh 
attack silently shatter his plans. Young Berrington once more had 
to take up for days the hard part to a man ot prolonged care of the 
sick, of soft words and gentle footfall. 

Blyth was an excellent son and a most tender nurse. Rich though 
he now was, he yet would let no hired attendant sleep in his old fa- 
ther’s room at nights, but himself undertook that wearisome duty. 
George Berrington had been a good father to his motherless boy, and 
Blyth felt now, after his own absence in Australia, the wish to do 
only far, far more for him. A man can do so little, he thought, a 
woman so much in a thousand little words and acts ! 

If Joy could but have stayed — 

Nevertheless the young man did his best nobly; bore patiently 
with the little whims and querulousness with which weary weak- 
ness will torment most poor sick creatures. He learned to subdue 
his own temper hourly, to make his own love of self-will give way 
even against reason, to soften not only his own words if a trifle 
rough, but also his voice and manner. As to his heart, that was 
always tender and pitiful enough beneath the slight upper crust of 
hardness and selfishness that grows upon men often, especially when 
left alone in youth to struggle in the battle of life. He chafed like a 
strong horse obliged to go at a snail’s pace. 

“ But it’s done him good,” soliloquized Hannah, to hemelf, in a 
low tone, sometimes; as she would stop bustling in the spotless, 
shining cleanliness ot her kitchen, and peer, with her wise little old 
eyes, out of the window. 

There would go Blyth, perhaps, kept in most of the afternoon 
waiting for the doctor’s visit; and now striding away on some dark, 
wet evening, glad to expand his chest and give his muscles play at 
last in a long walk over the hills; while the strong air, however 
damp-laden, blew like gusts of fire and exhilaration into his face. 

” He’ll be all the better man when sire comes back. To be rich 
and young and strong makes a man’s heart so lifted up, till he thinks 
himself lord over all those about him and a pet ot Providence. And 
he’s like a nut, hard outside but sweet when you crack it. Ah, he’s 
learning now that to have got all his money in Australia isn’t every- 
thing.” 

Blyth, an hour later, standing meditatively down the Chad valley, 
would have doubtless agreed with Hannan’s last words, lie would 
be most likely looking over the mossy parapet of the second bridge 
down the river from their farm. The swollen river, after winding 
in loops through the. narrowed valley up which he gazed, here 
foamed, white and shallow, over a wear, filling his ear with brawl- 
ing noise. The hills on either side looked steep and 'black and lower- 
ing, clothed with underwood and copse that now was brown and 
shaggy and leafless. With Joy all the summer’s softening influence 
and beautiful hues seemed fled from the rugged nature around. 

And yet Blj th loved his home as much as ever. Even this wintery 
evening had its charms for him, as he watched idly the intensely 
deep indigo hue ot the great clouds overhead showing that a storm 
was brewing; then the white water hurrying seaward below him; 
and the wet, pallid green ot the little flat valley with red rocks out- 


JOY. 


178 

cropping here and there from the hills that rose close on either 
hand. 

Bestirring himself, he would resolve to walk round over the 
ground he had now Dought from old Hawkshaw. A hill with a fine 
oak-wood he had coveted from his boyhood, and then some fat 
fields, a meadow, and, lastly, rounding the hill and touching the old 
Bed Farm land, a dell that Joy had always loved and sometimes 
strayed into. 

The sward was always short and green here, even though rough 
and wet with winter growth, while some white rocks pushing their 
shoulders out through the wood were laced with ivy trails. Haw- 
thorns stood scattered through the dell, deep russet with haws; 
others as white as if they had caught and kept the morning mist, or 
the wool of several sheep hanging on them in a pall. This strange 
sight, almost like snow in a dull twilight, was from the twining 
traveler’s joy whose hoary winter seeds made gray-beards of the 
trees. 

“ Here,” thought Blyth, ” 1 will make a drive for her, following 
the hollow of the ground up to tfie Red House. Yonder shall be 
the gate leading out on the Moortown high-road. If it could only be 
done now by magic before she comes back ; and I would drive in 
here with her by my side, and my dailing would say it was a pleas- 
ant demesne to live in all one’s days.” 

By no magic, though by men’s good labor, the road through the 
dell was made by early spring; and yet no young mistress passed 
up it. 

There was a new horse for Joy that Blyth himself had carefully 
trained through the long winter, whinnying in the stable. A new 
wagonette stood beside the old shabby gig, waiting lor Blyth to 
mount its front seat some day with Joy at his side, while there was 
capacious room behind for old Mr. Berrington, and Rachel too — if 
she would. 

But the spring had stolen imperceptibly into summer, and once 
more the hay stood high and crested; the cuckoo called by day, and 
the night- jar and landrail were heard at night. And still Rachel was 
faraway, abroad; keeping the sunshine of the farm with her, the 
life and gladness of the house. 

So old George Berringion grumbled, adding he- had short time 
left on earth, maybe; and that it seemed hard. Blyth sighed audi- 
bly, but said nothing. 

Up spoke Hannah at that, fired in the defense of the absent and 
her sex, sharply rebuking them both. 

‘‘You’re better than you were last December, Mr. Berrington, 
now that the swellings of your legs has eased your chest; and who 
knows but what you may long outlive Miss Rachel yet, who’s had 
troubles enough, the dear knows: to kill a dozen men. Why should 
you both grudge the poor soul what is just, I believe, the happiest 
time ot her hard, hard life? It’s like a mother who has been sepa- 
rated always from her own child (for Miss Joy has been like that to 
her), and who has her at last all to herself, by her side. They’re 
traveling a hard road, and on a task which Him who made us only 
knows whether it will be for their own happiness or chastisement, 
if they do succeed. But never you fear. Miss Joy isn’t fretting. She 


JOY. 


179 

knows her call in life is to cheer them that most want it. Be tnank- 
ful, both of you men, that your lives have been, and are still, 
passed in ease and plenty; it even, at the end, you have to want 
something you desire, master.” 

Both the Berringtons took Hannah’s words well, though each 
after his own fashion. Old Berrington kept more silence from re- 
pinmgs. Blyth threw redoubled energy into his work, in improv- 
ing, altering, and beautifying the larm' and the Red House itself. 

With the fine weather had come sounds of masons’ tools, car- 
penters’ hammers, clinking and driving all day long. hTot a plank, 
brick, or nail of the pleasant old house should be altered, so Blyth 
assured his father. But some more rooms were added, in design 
matching the fine ancestral homestead so excellently well that the 
Red House of former da5'^s seemed not only spread more substan- 
tially, but as quaint-looUing as ever. And these were rooms for Joy: 
airy and sunny, lined to be a nest fit for such a bright bird of deli- 
cate parentage. 


CHAPTER Llll. 

“I wander east, I wander west, 

Where’er my fancy guides me ; 

And laugh and sing, and care nothing, 

If weal or ill betide me. 

Once— was it long, long years ago, 

Or yesterday?— 

I had a dream that some one cared 
For me— well-a-day !” — Song. 

What of Rachel Estonia and Joy meanwhile? 

A year found them wandering still, and still in vain, from town 
to town, after the elusive feu-follet that ever flitted before them — 
a lost soul, indeed, according to the old superstition. 

They had not been without some gleanings here and there of ac- 
tual news of poor, wayward Magdalen on her erratic course. 

In London, the police discovered for them, after some time, that 
she had left before they arrived. She had gone to a quiet hotel, 
wdiere she called herself by her rightful name of Countess of Ri- 
vello. Rachel and Joy listened breathlessly to the account from the 
very lips of those who had seen her; of how quiet and winning the 
” foreign ladj’' ” had been in her manner, though a little whimsical 
in her dress. Very restless she was only in this, that morning, 
noon, and evening she must always be driving about or walking. 
“ She w^anted a hundred eyes to see all the sights with,” she said. 
At nights, she complained that sleep only came to her it she was 
ciuite tired out. 

Presently her loneliness in “ London, that great sea,” seemed to 
weary the countess. She told the people of the hotel, vaguely, of 
having left friends behind her in the country, who liked its dull- 
ness; but for her, slie was tired of gray skies and green fields, and 
wanted to enjoy a little gayety, movement, life. London had grown 
dull and stupid of late years, she said; it used to be so different! 
She should go to Paris! 

To Paris they followed her, and through France. Then said 


180 


JOY. 


Rachel, with a sudden inspiration, “ She will go to Genoa; to our 
old home there.” It was so indeed! 

Magdalen had been there before them : had stood once more on 
the echoing marble halls of the old palace, the place whereof knew 
her no more. She had turned away light as thistledown blown by 
the wind. It was dreary there, she said, but Italy w’^as bright and 
gay outside, and she was happy. She was happy ! they repeated, 
looking wonderingly at each other; she had not said that for years. 

But to Rachel her father’s home gave a thousand silent welcoines 
to the daughter whose happiest days had been spent there, listening 
to his words of wrsdom, fostered by maternal love. And to Joy she 
told a thousand memories of those dear dead ancestors, whom the 
girl thus learning to imagine and know by her loving description, in 
their own stately chambers and amid those beautiful associations, 
thenceforth learned to revere and think of with such aftection that 
she believed she should recognize them by instinct as having been 
of her own kindred on earth when, in some future blissful state, 
they might meet her face to face. 

Those months were a wonderful education to Joy. Her mind was 
drinking in all it saw with keen delight ; for albeit her zeal to find 
her mother slackened no less than Rachel’s, yet her eyes perforce 
took in at every glance beauties of sights and scenery she had never 
before imagined. 

Oh, the glorious “ roof of blue, Italian weather!” 

"Who could long be unhappy under such a sky? Surely, thought 
Joy, knowing her mother’s light spirit unfettered by thoughts of 
duties left behind or the anxieties of those who loved her, surely 
she was happy loo. She had said so. Every additional scrap of 
news, discovered with difficulty, described her as rambling way- 
ward but wildly it seemed, past classic marbles and lemon- 
groves, where Flore nee basked under her hills, and on, on, still stray- 
ing south, through towms once famous and stirring, now still as in a 
noon-day siesta. 

‘‘ Let us go straight to Rome. We shall find her there,” both the 
lips of the loving ones who followed he: agreed. 

So they went to Rome, the mother city whose mysterious influ- 
ence has drawn travelers through so many ages to herself— but 
Magdalen was not there. They turned back, sceldng her, and then, 
once more getting on her track, found she had gone there as they 
went away ! 

Back to Rome with the new year they hurried, with beatinc; 
hearts, every hour, every minute, expecting to meet Magdalen face 
to face round some street corner; settling how gently they would 
greet her, as if nothing unusual lay in such a meeting. They feared 
to frighten her now by making many inquiries. 

It seemed that Magdalen had somehow become aware she was 
being followed. For when last they heard with their own ears in- 
telligence from a peasant woman with whom she had actually 
lodged in a village of the Alban Hills, the poor soul had been only 
fitfully gay, at other times nervous and suspicious, hinting at being 
pursued by unknown, mysterious enemies. She was so cunning, 
too, that at the least alarm she would most likely dart away and 
elude their grasp. 


JOY. 


181 


But to-night, or else to-morrow morning, or certainly on the fol- 
lowing evening, they would meet her by some fountain, or in a gar- 
den, or among the grand ruins of the Rome of the Csesars. 

She would not be fright ened at them — no! now their task was in- 
deed almost at an end 1 

Joy learned fresh lessons of heart and head she never forgot in 
those long weeks of search; but, above all, in those last few days of 
excited waiting and hope, Rachel Estonia was her silent teacher. 
Never too eagerly elated, nor cast down in the bitterest moments 
when her hopes proved fruitless tor the thousandth time; steadfast, 
sweet, and living, however weary, she walked as one who knows 
not, asks not, why her jjath should be so full of difficulties; but, 
cheered and guided by faith, still presses on her way, undoubting 
that all is for the best. 

So three or four days passed in vain. Then, one evening, they 
heard Magdalen’s voice! 

It was after sunset and already dusk and cold, so that both the 
women watchers had wrapped themselves against the chill night 
air. By staying at hom.e they could do no good in their quest, and 
feeling that Magdalen, with her constant craving for air and move- 
ment, was sure to be abroad even when the Romans would be in- 
doors, they stole out together. 

They were passing down a street, being anxious to gain the bet- 
ter-lighted Piazza di Spragua, for here the gleam of only a few 
lamps fought with the dark shadows thrown by projecting build- 
ings. Here and there open church-portals revealed glimpses of in- 
teriors where dreamy lights, music, and incense might still be seen 
and heard, for some special services were being performed, contrast- 
ing strangely with the barking and quarreling of street dogs that 
wx^re ravenously searching the dust-heaps for offal, while making 
night hideous with their clamor. 

On a sudden, Joy, who had' a quicker musical ear than Rachel, 
caught her aunt’s aim, whispering. 

“ Stop: listen! That is my mother’s voice singing.” 

As you shall hear a bird’s note trilling above all the bustle and 
roar of a street, so they distinguished now, to the accompaniment of 
a few chords struck on a mandolin, Magdalen’s very tones singing, 
as of old, the Indian song they had so often heard, 

“ Taza be taza, 

No be no.” 

A few words followed, as both listened spellbound. No more! 

Then Rachel raised her voice in a clear call. 

” Magdalen! Magdalen! It is 1, Rachel, calling you. Come to 
me.” 

No answer came back. 

They rushed across the street through the darkness, heedless of 
jostling passers by, of fruitrcarts and dower-baskets, against which 
they stumbled. Where she had been? Alone there in some one of 
those dark houses, at a balcony; or down here on the footway? 
They had not been able to distinguish from the sounds. Rachel 
and Joy tried hither and thither: searched and asked and waited up 


JOY. 


182 

and down for long, till only utter exhaustion drove them at last 
lingeringly away to rest awhile before dawn — all, all in vain! 

When, in despair, daughter and sister applied for help and in- 
formation to the authorities, there was long waiting before it was 
tardily found that the street-singer they sought had some time since 
disappeared. 

A street-singer? Impossible! 

Nay, it was true. She did not make her livelihood altogether 
thereby, but seemed to eke out slender means. A foreigner she was, 
of what country none precisely knew, but she called herself Madda- 
lena. A woman who seemed of middle age by her profuse gray 
hair, but younger in mind, as gay and lightly pleased as a child. 
But also she was quick, shifting, never to be depended on, and dan- 
gerous in her sudden tempers. She was gone! gone! Yes, very 
certainly; but none knew whither. 

But to loving hearts how much is not possible? 

The t wo women guided only by some blind guess at truth, some- 
thing in their hearts seeming to whisper that was right, tracived her 
to Naples. Thence, after a short rest, Magdalen had started north- 
ward, seemingly in ill-health and daily poorer. With what diffi- 
culty they slowly followed! now taking a wrong route and having 
to retrace their steps, now overshooting the mark in a right direction. 
But after some weeks all trace seemed lost. 

A whole month they waited near where Magdalen’s last footsteps 
had certainly passed. One steadily, one eagerl3% the young girl and 
the elder woman examined carefully every track, watched for any 
clew; finding many kind hearts and much sympathy. 

At last came a message from where a little town lay clinging to a 
steep hillside among olives. A good priest there had taken in the 
poor wanderer, footsore, hungry, and ill. Her brain had become 
distracted, but she had been pitifully dealt with, most kindly- 
nursed. And the warm, simple hearts had grown fond of her, she 
had such a light charm and helpless but coaxing ways, like a petted 
child masquerading in the body of one of its elders. 

She w^as still wdiite and weak, but able to sing again to the ac- 
companiment of a little mandolin she carried, when one spring morn- 
ing (as all the earth seemed bursting into flower) they found that in 
the night past she had slipped away. 

Without a word of farewell, ungrateful one! But may the saints 
protect the poor innocent! She was not to be blamed for aught she 
did. 

The months that followed were spent in fresh journeyings and in- 
quiries made from town to town under the Alps. But no sign, no 
faintest trace, now ever came to stir Joy’s warm, impulsve heart to 
fresh energies and hope, or to cheer in the least Rachel’s more re- 
signed spirit. The latter seemed wandering in -the desert without a 
well of water anywhere, or palm-tree to rest and refresh her. But 
for Joy’s love now she would have broken down; her mind turned 
often to lean on the younger one for comfort. Dark doubts came 
in the lone watches, whispering that she had been given but one 
charge and care on earth, and had lost it ! That at the end of her 
trial she had been found wanting; was a careless, unloving sister; a 
faithless servant. 


JOY. 183 

The bravest pilgrim of life may suffer such temptings and tor- 
ments, when the journe}’’ is already almost well ended. 

In those days, in the darkest of those hours, the gleam of Joy’s 
smile and her voice, even her laugh, broke the spell; and Rachel 
would lift up her voice to bless her in heart. 

At last, when the fiercest summer heats came, and both women 
drooped in their task, and had begun to look silently at each other 
with almost hopeless but still patient eyes, there arrived an urgent 
letter from Blylh Berrington, 

“Come back, if only for two days,” he wrote to Joy. “My 
father is very ill and wishes to see you; he thinks it may be for the 
last time.” 

The girl’s tears fell like warm rain as she thought of the kind old 
man who had been a true father to her in her childhood. 

“ Surely 1 can go, now — at last?” she appealed to Rachel, as if 
distrusting the quick beats of her own heart. 

“ Go! We must go, of course,” replied Rachel, surprised, as if 
a priestess had heard a divine call doubted by a young attendant in 
the temple. “ Yes, I am going with you. We are no longer re- 
quired to stay here, 1 believe; and there we are needed.” 


CHAPTER LIV. . 

“ Tell me, gentle traveler, thou 
Who hast wandered far and wide, 

Seen the sweetest roses blow, 

And the brightest rivers glide; 

Say, of all thine eyes have seen, 

Which the fairest land has been? 

shall I tell thee where 

Nature seems most blest and fair, 

Far above all climes beside? 

’Tis where those we love abide ; 

And that little spot is best 

Which the loved one’s foot hath pressed.” 

The Rose-garden of Persia. 

“ East and west, home’s best,” says the proverb. Joy felt that 
true, in every’" tingling pulse, as once more she saw the well-known 
tors rising one after another against the sky into view; and as she 
rejoiced in the wild freshness of the moorland, reviving her jaded 
senses and mind wearied by hasty traveling. And when the twisted 
chimneys of the Red House came in sight, and its glittering vanes, 
even from afar her heart leaped to greet them. 

There was home to her where Blyth Berrington dwelt! 

They had hastened back, fearing to be too late. But Blyth met 
them at Moortown, and said, in his first greeting, 

“ My father is still alive. The doctors say he cannot recover, but 
that he has lasted so wonderfully against all their experience, he 
may still hold his ground for some days.” 

How strange it was to Blyth that here was Joy again by his side, 
as he had planned; seeing the new lands by the windings of the 
Chad that now owmed a Berrington as master; and admiring with 
honest, unspoiled gladness, like a child almost, all the wonders and 


JOY. 


184 

additions that had improved, hut not changed, the dear old house 
one bit, so she declared. It was not the home-coming he had 
dreamed of. For however olten and lovingly they would turn to 
look each other in the eyes (and that at the same moments, alinost 
always, by some strange mutual prompting), yet there was a weight 
ot sadness on their faces, and they smiled each to each in the sad 
way that says, “We could be so happy now, if — !” 

No; are such meetings again, as most things planned and looked 
forward to too eagerly, ever quite what imagination dreamily and 
delightfully pictured? Happy they who have least imagination, 
when the inevitable disappointment comes. 

Blyth had a steady fancy, luckily for himself. He felt so humbly 
glad to have his Joy back that he cared little how she came, so long 
as she cared for him. 

And she did care; she loved him, so ber own soft lips told hiUi 
that evening under the low-spreading, great elm-tree, w’here tlie 
bench was, in the old close, now a lawn; loved him as well— yes, 
and far better than ever. 

“ But how long are we still to be parted, dear?” asked Blyth, 
holding firmly the main point within his mind in view. “ A year 
has gone that we have passed awniy from each other! That is lost 
to both of us! No, 1 must not say" lost to you, for you have grown 
even tar more beautiful, though 1 could not have believed that pos- 
sible before. And you have a new air, too, as if a princess had 
come back to our old farm.” 

“ Oh, Blyth, 1 have not heard such flattery all the months 1 have 
been away! That is new to you— and you are changed in other 
ways, too. But,” her warm, red bps laughing prettily up at him, 
not to seem accusatory ot his past, “ 1 really believe it is an im- 
prove aient!” 

Joy tell, but knew not yet how to describe what came to her in- 
tuitively by woman’s (juick divining, forestalling experince, tliat 
Berrington was in much a different man; softened in his pride of 
strength, youth, and good-fortune; more patient and thoughtful for 
others, and forbearing. 

Blyth paid her for her praises; which, however, she had not alto- 
gether foreseen, Then he repeated his question, 

“ Joy, dearest, promise me that now you have come back, we two 
shall not be parted any more.” . 

The girl sighed and looked round as if lor counsel to the well-be- 
loved trees, the valley and river, but all seemed to echo Blyth’s re- 
quest, “ Do not leave us, Joy; do not leave us!” 

“ It seems so strange that we mortals should so often talk of not 
being parted any more,” she murmured. “ Why, see how death 
comes, or misfortune of all kinds, and, against their will and vows, 
those who love best, and have had, perhaps, very little time to be 
happy, are sundered. The only thin" we can be sure of having in 
life is some duty, it seems to me; and there is a satisfaction in ful- 
filling it that is certain, too, though it may not be happiness.’ Well, 
our duty now is to see to your father, Blyth. Let us wait till later 
to talk about ourselves.” 

A week later the two lovers were out rambling once more together. 

It was afternoon; and while Rachel stayed in- doors by old Mr, 


JOY. 


185 


Berringtnn, who was sleeping, Blyth and Joy, who had both sat up 
several nights watching in the sick-room, were glad to go out for 
fresh air and a little wliile of each other’s company alone. 

They had strayed down into the newly bought fields. 

How warm it was! but with a fresh wind rustling the branches of 
the elms in the great hedgerows they passed under, skirting the 
wheat that stood green and as liigh already as Joy’s waist. Here 
and there, through the gaps, could be seen peeps of the distant sun- 
lit hills, lying free and uncultured, fleeting shadows passing over 
them like light thoughts. 

And ever and again, as the breeze drove the clouds by overhead 
they would see what Joy loved, how 

“ a ripple of shadow 
Runs over the whisperous wheat.” 

Then Blyth spoke once more. 

Farmei Berrington was no worse, but indeed marvelously retain- 
ing his strength in a stout-hearted way against the grim enemy. 
The doctors had given him up. Good nursing was all that could 
now be of any little service to him, they said, shaking their heads in 
kindly dolorousness. Good nursing the old man now truly had 
since Joy returned, with Rachel to help her; though he loved best to 
see his “ beauty, his daughter to be, with her voice drawn out as 
fine as a bell- wire, and as sw^eet as a flute,” he slowly uttered, with 
admiring affection. 

And, lo, and behold ! instead of turning his face to the wall, and 
being gathered to his fathers by now, as was prophesied, old George 
Berrington was, somehow, no worse— nay, so incredibly better, that 
Blyth had to check his own lightheartedness, for it was indeed ‘‘ too 
good to be true.” 

“Now, we may allow ourselves to consider our own future a 
little,” he pleaded of his love. “ Suiely— surely, Joy, dearest, our 
two lives need not always be sacrificed to following a wu*aith! You 
might as well try to catch one of those shadows on the hillside 
yonder — ” 

“ Our lives need not be always sacrificed, as you .say, Blyth,” re- 
plied the beautiful dark girl beside him, slowly, with slightly quiv- 
ering lips. “ If— if, say in two years from now% we have not found 
my mother, then 1 will come to you as your wife— if you still wish 
to have me.” 

“ In tiDO years! Good heavens, darling, you must be jokina with 
me. You do not seriously think it necessary to wander for two 
whole years longer on such a wild, hopeless task — when all trace 
and chance is lost too!” uttered Blyth, aghast. 

“ It is almost hopeless, indeed; a tangled skein!” whispered Joy, 
low, not having strength of heart enough at that moment to speak 
louder. 

It was hard indeed, with Blyth’s arm round her wai.^t, and his 
handsome face looking down in hers, appalled; sorrowful reproach 
in his blue eyes, as he stood stock still on hearing her words in the 
narrow path between the tall wheat and the shady, high hedgerow. 

Then she looked aside, her own eyes full of pain, and somehow 
she noticed just there how red the poppies were that burned in 


186 


JOY. 


crimson spots through the green waving army of wheat spears that, 
rustling, overtopped them. And was that a woodpecker in the deep 
oak-wood yonder, tap-tapping? 

All the while— it was but for a few silent seconds — the poor girl 
was aware, in a vague way, that she must cling fast to a resolve 
taken some time back in her own mind. There was pain in holding 
to the dut}’", abnegation; and so somehow she seemed trying to 
divert her own inner self, as if it were a different being, by noticing 
the outer landscape and sounds. How often again, m later years of 
her life, she remembered those poppies, and the summer scene; re 
called the past pain, and could hear the wood-pecker plying his 
trade so busily, once more! 

So Joy did not finish her sentence. 

“ It pains you too? You don’t wish truly to part from me for 
all this weary w’hile?” Blyth exclaimed, seeing only her face, not 
what was passing in her heart; and he passionately drew Joy close 
to him, her head resting on his broad breast. A moment or two Joy 
so sta5'^ed still, then, raising her face, she murmun'd, 

“It pains me, but I must go! Were it only for Aunt Rachel’s 
sake 1 must go, not to leave her so lonely. When 1 am with her, 
she says every fresh root we sleep under on our wanderings is home 
to her. Think of her desolate and disappointed, she who is a saint 
on earth. Oh, Blyth, if you love me, don’t tempt me!” 

“ I won’t! 1 won’t! not to leave her entirely. But think of my 
old father, Joy! you are the light of his eyes. Marry me first, dar- 
ling — pul up the bans next Sunday. He will be satisfied in his old 
age; and when you have stayed with us a little while the dear old 
man will be either laid to sleep in peace, or else so much better that 
you and 1 will go on our travels together. There! let me have one 
kiss and say you will meet me half-way.” 

Thus Blyth uttered m return hurriedly, and, not waiting tor Joy’s 
assent, he had just sealed the compact on one side, thinking to secure 
victory, when the sound of some one coughing violently at a little 
distance made both start, 


CHAPTER LV. 

“ Weep, foolish heart, 

And, weeping, live. 

For death is dry as dust; yet if ye part, 

End as the night, whose sable hue 
Your sins express, melt into dew.” 

G. Herbert. 

Blyth and Joy looked all round, but only the wheat-field and the 
waving blanches of the elms were to be seen, or had descried them. 
Nevertheless, with a sober and demure air they proceeded along the 
narrow footpath; Joy feeling specially guilty because the no in her 
heart had. not yet been uttered with which she must have frozen the 
kiss tliat was so warm on her lips. 

At the corner of thp field was a stile, the path leading to which ran 
at right angles with theirs, so that the thickness of the tangled 
hedge row had completely hid the lovers from any indiscreet eyes 
approaching. 


JOY. 


187 

A young man was trying to get over the stile as they came up. 
Or, rather, he seemed so ill that, being taken with weakness in the 
very act, he was supporting himselt on the top bar. 

Joy almost gave a scream of surprise as she saw him. 

It was Steenie Hawkshaw ; but looking like a ghost in a living 
man’s clothes. Deathly white, with cheeks so nollow that the skin 
seemed drawn over them with difficulty, only his eyes being wonder- 
fully brightened and larger, and his cheek-bones tinged with a 
round, red hush in deceptive appearance of health, the poor fellow 
was coughing again as if the tit would rack him to pieces. 

“Oh, Blyth, help him; he may fall!” exclaimed Joy, with a 
woman’s quick pity. 

More slowly, man-like, Blyth had come forward, not liking to 
seem forcing aid on any one. But now, urged by that dear voice 
of divine sympathy, he held out his arm like a strong bar for sup- 
port, saying simply <in an honest, kindly way, 

“Just take hold of me till you get down, will you, Hawkshaw? 
That cough of yours would shake any man.’’ 

As Blyth thus stood quite close to the stile, Steenie collected him- 
self. He had seemed ready to faint, and his biow was damp with 
bead-drops, but a faint flush now overspread his features, and, sum- 
moning all his remaining strength, he struck Blyth in the face with 
his wasted, nerveless fist. 

“ There! that’s for you and your help,’’ he gasped, with excited, 
working features. “ Take that in return for the day we met at 
Drewston.’’ 

Joy had grown crimson with fury at the insult, for her lover’s 
sake. But Blyth, though he had stepped back a pace, forbore to 
show a sign of anger, after the first quick stare. He said, very 
quietly, 

“ 1 will take that and another blow besides, Hawkshaw, if in your 
conscience you think it right for you to give and me to receive. 
God judge "between us as regards the poor, hunted woman that 
caused our quarrel!’’ 

There was a minute’s silence. Steenie Hawkshaw had succeeded 
in getting down from the stile unaided, though he was so weak that 
he tottered. Then another fit of coughing came on, so bad he had 
to hold his head, and it made them ache with pity to hear him. 
When it was over, Hawkshaw laid his head against the top bar and 
sobbed. 

Blyth and Jov watched him, feeling quite stricken with pity, and, 
as it were, ashamed of being so well and strong themselves. Had 
Steenie died then and there in the field they would hardly have been 
surprised, so near the end of his life did he seem. Bodily w^eakness 
had overpowered him, besides the reaction after the impulse of his 
anger against Blyth. Then the forgiving manliness of the latter, 
added to who knew what slings of his own conscience about Mag- 
dalen, that had long tortured him, increased on seeing Joy, had 
broken down the poor wretch’s pride utterly. 

Ashamed of himself, he stopped, with an effort to laugh. 

“Well, 3mu’ve the best of me, Berrington. I’m dying; and, if 
not, I’d have been disinherited, anv way, for a wretched, puling 
baby up there at the Barton. Ha, ha— that’s how the world goes.” 


JOY. 


188 

He could not stir yet; hardly speak. Joy pitifully hent over him 
and wiped the damps from his brow with her handkerchief. 

Hawkshaw suffered Her to do it, then spoke, with some relenting 
in his bitterness. 

“ You don’t grudge me going through these fields, perhaps, Her- 
rington. This path was sometimes said to be a public one, though 
we tried to stop its being used.” 

“You are welcome to it, at all events,” answered Hlyth, gravely. 
” But will you do either of two things? Let me give you my arm 
back to the Barton, for you are not strong enough to be left by 
yourself; or, if you can get as far as the Red House, I’ll drive you 
back myself.” 

Without a word, Hawkshaw looked Blyth in the face awhile. 

Then he slowly said, 

” I’ll do neither; but 1 believe you’re a good sort, after all. And, 
if 1 could live the past time over again, we miglft have been friends. 
Well, no matter now! But still 1 maybe able to do you both a 
good turn. Have you been to the fair at Moortown to-day?” 

“No,” said Blyth, wondering. He had sent his farm -bailiff', 
though, and his thoughts flashed at once to wondering what foolish- 
ness that individual could have been about; although supposed a 
very superior successor to old Dick, who was now be&dden and in 
a state of dotage. 

“ Go Doth of you, theji, and see the traveling show. There’s an 
evening performance. 1 wmnt last night, and — though 1 couldn’t 
be sure — 1 hardly slept afterward thinking of what 1 saw there. You 
go especially!” (to Joy) ‘‘ If you don’t, you may regret it to your 
dying day.” 

11 is two listeners tried to make Hawkshaw speak more distinctly 
on the subject in his mind, by natural queries, objections, surmises. 

But Steenie would by no means say more than— 

” Go, 1 tell you, go! 1 never supposed two fine, traveled people 
like you both wmuld care the snuff of a caudle for the show; but 
still you go. Wait for the waxworks to be opened — never mind the 
other performances, the puppet-show and the tat boy and Zulus, a 
lot of them — jmu watch for the music in the waxwork tent. Good- 
by. I make no promise, lor 1 may be all wrong — 1 couldn’t be 
sure. But just you go and see.” 

With which oracular words, and no more explanation vouch- 
safed, Steenie left them slowly, leaning on a stick heavily, and every 
now and then stopping to rest and watch the yellow butterflies flut- 
tering by, and the darting swallows in mid-air, wdth a sort of envy. 

Blyth and Joy watched him a little, then, seeing he was better, 
and apparently able to take his owm way back, both looked at each 
other. 

” What does he mean?” asked Joy, her woman’s curiosity all 
alive. 

” 1 don’t know,” answered Blyth, musing. ” But we had better- 
go and see.” 


JOY. 


189 


CHAPTER LVl. 

“ The first company that passes by. 

Say na, and let them gae ; 

The next company that passes by, 

Say nae, and do” right sae ; 

The third company that passes by. 

Then I’ll be ane o’ thae. 

First let pass the black. Janet, 

And syne let pass the brown, 

But grip ye to the milk-white steed. 

And pu’ the rider down.” 

The Young Tamlane. 

The sun was setting behind the Moortown hills as Bl.yth drove 
Joy up to the little town. 

There was a small square in the middle of the town, in which 
stood an old market cross, raised on three tiers ot steps. And round 
this central spot — a strange contrast — were pitched seven large yel- 
low wagons. 

These blocked up the little side-streets, one leading from the gray 
church with its low tower, and another from the almshouses, and 
another ending the road up from the valley. The traffic was choked, 
and the country crowd, wedged into narrow space, seemed multi- 
plied. The tops of the great vans were on a level with the little 
bedruom windows above the butcher’s and baker’s and grocer’s 
shops, and even obscured those of the “ Three Crowns Inn.” 

The evening air was noisy with the braying of a brass band at- 
tached to the"" great show, and preluding one ot the various per- 
formances which succeeded each other. Mingled with this came the 
baaing of many sheep on the air, that were being driven away in 
different flocks; the good-humored and sleepy voices of fat farmers 
standing about the inn door in groups, broken by an occasional great 
laugh; the excited calls of the village gossips, noise of children, and 
disregarded coarse shouts of ” Auut Sally ” and ” shies-at-a-cocoa- 
nut ” men, whose mean baits were altogether outdone by the big- 
yellow caravan, w'hich combined so many attractions in itself. 

As Blyth Berrington, after putting up his dog-cart at the ” Three 
Crowns,” escorted Joy through the good-humored crowd of sight- 
seers, the business of the day was over, the fun of the little fair in 
full swing. 

PI ere wuas one yellow house on wTieels, with the hideous fat lady, 
who resided squeezed therein, portrayed outside; resembling much, 
apparently, a Yorkshire pig. If, by chance, she moved one ot the 
blinds for air before the tiny windows of the carnage-house in which 
she was boxed, or that, by chance, a glimpse of a stout bare arm 
could be seen, the excitement ot the children outside, who could not 
afford to pay tlmir pennies, knew no bounds. There was the pop- 
ping of a shooting-gallery also to be heard in a different direction; 
another wagon had disgorged a movable wooden stage, on which 
marionettes had lately been put through their puppet dance; wdiile 
some last sounds of most hideous clamor in a tent signified that 


190 


JOY. 


some “ real Zulus” were just ending their native war dance, hoarse 
with shouts, and no doubt leg- weary, to judge by the violent stamp- 
ini; that shook the protruding boards of their temporary ball-room. 

Blyth and Joy passed all these attractions, and went toward the 
waxworks, as directed. The show was not 3^et open. 

Feeling a little foolish, and still curious, yet prepared by their own 
anticipation for disappointment, they conversed together in whispers 
upon 8teenie Hawkshaw and his. mysterious words; tried to pretend 
interest in the scene around; and half thought of driving straight 
home again to the Red House. 

“ These good people are all looking .at us, and wondering what we 
are heie for. It 1 thought it was a hoax — ” said Blyth, half-gnifily, 
feeling uncomfortable in the situation. 

“ Oh, no, no; any one so ill as Steenie wasw^ould not hoax. Hav- 
ing come so far, we must see what there is to be seen,” pleaded Joy, 
whose curiosity, though mixed wdth doubts, had only grown with 
the delay. 

At that moment the brass band struck up again. The evening 
show of the waxworks was about to open. 

The largest yellow wagon, which had unroofed itself, now let 
down a row of flap-shutters from its sides, displaying behind these a 
striking portrait gallery of the queen and all lier ministers, both in and 
out of oflice, with strict impartiality. The floor of the wagon be- 
came a platform, on which the effigies of six gilded knights apparently 
brayed from trumpets, while very real, untuned sounds came from 
a group of mortal musicians behind them. 

“ Walk up, walk up, lady,” cried a red-faced showman, with a 
tall hat stuck much on one side of his head, perceiving Jcj’^’s beauti- 
ful face under her shady gypsy bonnet. “ Walk up, and the gen’l- 
’rnan will be ’appy to pay for you, I’ll be bound.” Then, in a 
hoarse- whispered shout to another assistant at the back, “ 1 say, 
Bill, make room there inside. Here’s a couple of real liuppers com- 
ing.” 

Blyth and Joy found themselves mingling with a crowd of better- 
class sight-seers, all eager to partake of the atmosphere of art and 
refinement in this department of the ” traveling exhibition,” report- 
ed to be much superior in its elegance to the other more vulgar en- 
tertainments in its company. 

They stumbled up some wooden steps on to the platform, stum- 
bled down more on the other side, and lound themselves inside a 
dark tent, surrounded by mysterious curtains. 

The showman now seized a long whip, and, as prelude, gave it a 
sharp flick over the heads of a group of Moortown children, whom 
he transfixed with his eye, 

“ Dc 1 hear a noise there; chattering and disturbing ladies and 
gents, besides all this assembled company? I’ll turn you all out, 
every one, next minute — this instant — and return j^ou your money, 
at half-price. Money indeed! What do 1 care about money? Ele- 
gant behavior’s the thing for these waxworks.” 

The frightened children had been as mum as mice, huddled to- 
gether; but flick! went the whip a second time over their innocent 
heads. 


JOY. 191 

Joy was indignant, and about to take their part, when a whisper 
from behind a curtain near thrilled her strangely. 

“ Be quiet yourself, stupid man, or 1 won’t sing! Do you hear — 
behave better at once.” 

The red-faced man, who had had his arm sharply grasped from 
behind the curtain, looked nonplussed a minute. Then, recovering 
himself (the little scene being perceived by few), he grew instantan- 
eously milder, though placing his hat more rakishly than ever on 
one side of his head, by way of self-assertion, fie began now to 
draw back the curtains one by one from before various inanely smil- 
ing waxwork figures. Then, turning the light from some strong re- 
jecting lanterns, managed by his assistant, on each in turn, went on 
eloquently explaining their merits and meaning; rolling his r’s as 
he declaimed with an unction, r-r-representing superfine education. 

But Joy heeded not a clammy group, setting forth the story (leci- 
led at some length) of ’Amlet and the lovely, unfortunate Hophelia. 
She never gave a loyal glance at the Royal Family, standing life-size 
in real though faded ball-dresses, and all wearing bigger or lesser 
gilded coronets. The ghastly horrors of the last celebrated murder 
were lost upon tier; though the murderer’s head was shown on one 
black-draped pedestal glaring at his pale victim’s face on another 
(the latter being represented with a red gash on his forehead, “to 
give the company present a hexcellent idea of the sufferings of this 
pore gentleman”). 

Joy could heed nothing, fix her eyes on nothing, but the curtain 
from whence had come that sharp whisper. 

‘‘ You are not well, 1 think; it is very hot and stuffy. Would 
you like to come away? There is nothing, after all, to be seen here,” 
asked Blyth, in a low tone, in her ear. 

” No, no! He said we were to wait for some music, didn’t he? 
We’ll not go just yet; at least, unless you wish it, Blyth.” 

So Blyth, marveling, and having come to the disgusted conclusion 
in his own mind that he was a fool for his pains, waited of course 
patiently at his dear sovereign’s bidding. 

They had still to wait some time. 

Once more Blyth asked Joy presently, it she would now like to 
come away. And — hesitating, with a sensation of faintness stealing 
over her, not so much from the heat and closeness of the place as 
from an indescribable disappointment and heart-sinking, when 
yet — no, surely ! — she had not allowed herself to think, expect any- 
thing— -she again answered, 

” Shall we just wait to see it all ended? Unless you very much 
mind, dear Blyth.” 

At last the showman had gone round all the waxworks in their 
separately draped little stalls. The curtains had been drawn back 
from all but one side; that where Joy still kept hey eyes fixed in a 
fascinated ^vav, while her ears were strained to catch the slightest 
sound, though all behind there was now still. 

” And now, ladies and gents, for the last and crowning attraction 
of this performance. The gifted Countess Maddalena, a Spanish 
lady of high descent, who has condescended for a while to ’ouor the 
boards of our Royal Traveling Theater as a bright, par-iw-ular star, 
will now sing a native song in the costume of an Indian princess.” 


JOT. 


192 

a sharp rattle the curtains were pulled hack from the end. 
There was revealed a tiny, low stage^ the interior dra])ed as a tent, 
with bright, Eastern-looking colored stuff. And, on a low divan of 
cushions, the light thrown full upon her, sat — Magdalen I 


CHAPTER LVll. 

“ While sadly I roam, I regret my dear home, 

Where lads and young lasses are making the hay; 

The merry bells ring, and the birds sweetly sing, 

And maidens and meadows are pleasant and gay. 

Oh, it’s home, dearest home. 

It’s home I fain would be ! 

Home, dearest home, in the North country. 

For the oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree. 

They grow best at home in the North country.” 

Old Ballad. 

Joy had gripped Blyth’s arm tight, and leaned heavily upon it for 
support. But she did not speak or move on seeing her mother. He, 
for his part, stood steady as a rock, though feeling most pitifully for 
the heart beating painfully beside him. The semi-darkness in which 
they all were crowded together in the tent concealed them from ob- 
srevation; and both felt, without a word, that as yet they must not 
betray themselves. 

Magdalen was dressed in a fantastic garb of crimson petticoat and 
black’ velvet bodice, that might have been supposed originally Ital- 
ian, but for fringes of gilt, glittering sequins fastened here and 
there, which jingled and tinkled as she bent forward now — not ris- 
ing, but bowing with a sort of careless grace in answer to the shuf- 
flings and murmurs of curiosity, and some encouraging hand-claps 
from her little audience in the twilight tent. Her e 3 ms gleamed so 
keenly from under a white head-dress, adorned with false jewels, as 
she gazed forward, that Blyth and Joy felt as if she must see them. 
And yet she did not; her gaze wandered restlessly on all around. 

Then, with a weary air that she seemed at no trouble to disguise, 
the be- tinseled countess took up a mandolin that lay on an old leop- 
ard-skin rug at her feet, and carelessly drawing out a prelude from 
the strings, began the song two listening there knew so well, “ Taza 
be taza.” 

Moment by moment, the well-known air and her own voice 
seemed to excite the singer’s feelings, however. 1 he old artistic 
spirit, only dormant till then, broke forth again. Her eye flashed; 
her voice grew clearer and stronger, her whole form took a moment- 
ary Are and grace of youth, it almost seemed, for a few fleeting mo- 
ments, as, striking her hand passionately now and again on the wood 
of the instrument, drawing out deep sounds, and then moving her 
fingers rapidly up and down the strings in a dreamy sweet-tinkling, 
almost laughing accompaniment, Magdalen chanted the old, old 
love song of Hafiz. 

An honest burst of applause drowned the last notes as they linger- 
ingly died aw^ay. Despite the shufflings, hoarse ‘‘ Brayvo's,” violent 
stamping of umbrellas, and thick sticks on the ground and such- 
like marks of w^ant of refinement in the criticism, it was good, gen- 
uine praise. 


JOY. 


193 

As such Magdalen felt it, with the quick magnetism of relations 
always established between true orator, actor, or singer and audi- 
ence who so gTeatly influence each other. She bowed and bowed 
again, and smiled with just such a delighted air as Blyth and Joy 
remembered so well seeing her wear in the glen— when, hidden in 
the bushes, they first saw her sing and dance to an imaginary crowd 
of spectatoi-s. For the moment she believed herself a star, a prima- 
donna, at the height of her triumphs! The traveling tent was a great 
theater ringing with acclamations! 

A few moments of gratified silence, Magdalen sat smiling as in a 
dream. Then the noisy calls, clappings, and stamping burst forth 
again from the crowd, eager for another song; the red faced mana- 
ger anxiously moved as if to attract the singer’s attention, but, think- 
ing better of it, stopped himself. 

“ Best not. Bill,” he muttered, replying to the urgings of his as- 
sistant, ” this werry partic’lar star of ours might fly out upon me, 
you know. A star, he, he! Humph, more like a sky-rocket. The 
countess is in one of her humors to-night and wants humoring, 1 can 
tell ye. My arm is sore yet.” 

Hush! Silence! She has begun again. 

But it is an old English ballad this time. 

“ A north-country maid up to London next stray’d, 

Although with her nature it did not agree ; 

She wept and she sigh’d, and she bitterly cried, 

I wish once again in the North I could be.” 

So on in the simple, well-known words telling of homesickness, 
longing, pining for the fresh air, the free life, the love left behind 
her, of the dear ones away up 3 onder. What is the matter? The 
singer’s voice has begun to grow fainter, to falter; the sadness of 
the words is infecting her own heart. 

Suddenly r-as if trying to rouse to a last effort and find relief in 
expression— Magdalen burst forth with all her powers, but in a wail 
of infinite pathos! such sadness as made any mothers there hold 
their babies tighter clasped to iheir breasts, and brought tears to the 
eyes of some. 

“ For it’s home, dearest home. 

It’s home I fain would be 1 
Home, dearest home, in the North country. 

Oh, the oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree. 

They grew best at home in the North country 1” 

The mandolin dropped from Magdalen’s hand. Slowly she rose to 
her feet and stood dumb, with a sort of awakening horror in her 
eyes, facing the crowd. 

In that moment, as so often before, the mask of madness seemed 
fallen from her face; a veil from her understanding. She loathed 
the eyes upon her; despised herself. 

The manager gave a hasty signal. His startled assistant instantly 
began moving one of the lanterns behind, to divert the public atten- 
tion from the dazed woman at once, and so flashed the light full 
upon the audience. 

A sharp cry rang from the little stage. 

31agdalen threw up her arms wildly, and calling “Joy! Joy I” fell 


JOY. 


194 

sideways prone, with her head buried among the cushions of her 
couch. 

The curtains were hastily pulled before the stage again. The 
crowd was pushed, urged, persuaded outside by the hotl}'’ bustling 
showmen, deat to all expostulations or kindly troublesome inquiries. 

In a few minutes the tent was almost empty. 

“ Take me home, Joy; take me back to the cottage — to Cold- 
home,” Magdalen was whispering, with her head on her daughter’s 
lap. ‘‘ Take me to-night, do you hear?” with something of her old 
imperiousness. “That dreadful man has made enough money by 
me. I always told him I should leave when I pleased.” 

At a little distance, by the platform steps, now deserted, another 
conversation was passing. 

“ Well, sir, of course, it is a tremendous sacrifice for us! Such 
a thing on a country tour as perhaps no manager but me, no, sir! 
would be generous enough to allow. No, I don’t say the ‘ countess ’ 
signed any agreement exactly. Know her, sir? Wouldn’t put pen 
to paper, so suspicious; no, nor let herself be bound in any way. 
Quite the ’aughty lady! just so. She did say, when we came across 
her near Dover, that she was struck by the superior style of my Roy- 
al Traveling Show; and that, if I was likely to come into these 
parts on our tour, she would like to travel in my company. But 
still — ” 

Blyth stilled all the objections of the generous manager. The 
latter, indeed, after a certain check had been safely inclosed in a 
greasy leathern pocket-book inside his own breast-pocket, was good' 
natured enough in speeding his late star and her newly found pro- 
tectors on their way. 

“ Poor soul ! quite in a dangerous state of disrepair in the hupper 
story at times, tiiough always tlie lady! Will be best with friends,” 
he whispered, significantly laying hiis finger down his red nose. 
“ But we must hurry, sir. Bustle up there. Bill, bustle. We travel 
at night, sir, when the roads are more free, and by td-morrow morn- 
ing we must be nearly arrived at our next destination.” 

And truly, when the lights of Moor town were all out, and the lit- 
tle town hushed after its unwonted excitement, while Blyth’s dog- 
cart, with three figures on it now, was driving swiftly down the 
Chad valley in the darkness, the square round the old market-cross 
was once more empty. 

Seven great yellow vans were rumbling in a southern direction, 
having 

“ folded their tents like the Arabs,” 
and silently gone away. 

For some time after, the talk of those who had been at the fair 
often turned on the Royal Show, and the foreign singer especially. 
Then little by little the remembrance of the yellow vans faded, as of 
the strange countess, supposed to have gone away with them. 


JOY. 


195 


CHAPTER LVlll. 

“ The same old home, 

The same old house, 

With moss and houseleek overgrown; 

And surely ’tis the self-same mouse 
That from the wainscot shyly peers. 

The flowers, bees, creepers, all the same I 
No weather-stain our eyes can lack. 

Where is the change we inly blame? 

’Tis in ourselves, alack I alack 1 
The years have sped. 

Our youth has fled.” 

The next day, once more a faint blue smoke rose in the morning 
and evening from the chimney of Cold-home. Any one nearing the 
porch would have seen that the great rusty padlock was gone which 
had been fastened across two staples in the door and post by young 
Berrington’s own hands, for additional security to the deserted 
house. 

That was all to be seen of change. Yet the cottage was once more 
inhabited by its old inmates. The old still life had begun there 
again. 

But how should any one in the country-side know that news, for 
weeks to come? Tho little brown house was so lonely, and had a 
reputation of being haunted now, moreover; and the glen was so 
little frequented. Even the swallows were not disturbed. The.y 
had reared some young broods in nests between the very door and 
lintel in peace. 

True, there was the lantern at night, which, if now lit, according 
to old custom, would have told its silent tale by the red light gleam- 
ing over the broken wan water, and illumining rocks and trees here 
and there, to leave the rest in deeper shadows. 

But there was no longer, now, need tor a lantern. 

During the past summer Blyth Berrington had caused a liltle foot- 
bridge with a stout hand-rail to be laid across the Chad by the ford. 
He had made the bridge soon after Rachel Estonia came to stay at 
the farm; tor, until this was done, Joy had herself gone up every 
evening to light the lantern in the little deserted house. And the 
way was long for the young girl —although, indeed, Blyth had al- 
ways gone with her in protection. 

Magdalen had with, difficulty been induced to sleep through tlie 
few dark hours of the first night at the Red House. Only the 
thought of seeing Rachel, and “ giving her a little surprise,” she 
said— with a low, light laugh like that of a child— had at last so 
tempted her. 

And then, when the crisis so dreaded by Blyth and Joy had come 
— when the young girl, in fear and trembling as to the result of the 
meeting between the two sisters, had stolen upstairs to wake Rachel 
in her dark bedroom, and break the wonderful news to her gently— 
and when Rachel, trembling now very much in her turn, but mar- 
velously self-restrained from years of habit, had crept down the 
creaking stairs softly with Joy, not to waken the good old farmer in 


196 


JOY. 


liis sick-room, and had come face to face with the sister so long 
sought and greatly loved, at last— why, tlien, Magdalen, after receiv- 
ing Rachel’s close embrace, in which her great emotion, though re- 
pressed with effort, was still felt, and gratefully answering with a 
light, quick kiss on either cheek, which was a sign of effusive affec- 
tion in her, only said, 

“Well, are you surprised to see me back? 1 had a strange fancy, 
do you know, Rachel. I thought at Rome one night that I heard 
yoii calling me — calling me from far, far away. A silly idea, wasn’t 
it? But I turned homeward after that, and here 1 am.’’ 

And they answered nothing, but held their peace. 

Iffagdalen was too restless to sleep that night, though she lay down 
beside Rachel, at the latter’s earnest entreaties. But she could not 
be long still; the old disquiet, the old feeling that she needed to 
roam in the open air and large silence of the hills, roused her by the 
glimmer of dawn. 

“ Up then crew the red, red cock, 

And up and crew the gray ; 

The eldest to the youngest said, 

’Tis time we were away.” 

At Magdalen’s bidding, Rachel had asked for the keys of the cot- 
tage from Blyth, before he had said good-night to them a few hours 
ago. They lay outside her door now — a heavy, rusty lump of iron 
— as the sisters stole out in the early gloaming. 

Blyth had asked leave to go with them and help them at the cot- 
tage. But Maffdalen had so turned away, silent, with a little shud- 
dering movement of her shoulders expressing dislike of strange com- 
pany, that Rachel hastily refused, with an expressive look of thanks 
to the young man. 

The sisters wore again their long, black cloaks and little hoods. 
Magdalen had never parted from hers all the year she had been away, 
but carried them in a bundle. 

“ 1 wanted to have it ready for when 1 came back,’’ she whispered, 
with a little air of pride at her own foresight as she displayed it. 
“ Where is yours, Rachel? Oh, you must put it on too. The peo- 
ple round will never know 1 have been away. It will all be just the 
old life again together. I am glad to come back to it.” 

The cottage was in all respects just as it had been left after Mag- 
dalen’s flight and Rachel’s hurried departure in illness. Only for a 
layer of dust over everything, it seemed to have been deserted but 
yesterday. 

By evening Blyth came toward the little brown house under the 
cliff, and waited outside at the Logan-stone for Joy; because he saw 
Magdalen’s dark figure wandering down from the upper glen, under 
covert of trees and bushes, with a secret air. It seemed to him, al- 
most, as it neither of the wisht sisters had ever gone aw^ay. 

In the early morning Joy had gone up to the cottage, carrying the 
provisions that, as she guessed, Magdalen’s impatience had not 
suffered Rachel to w^ait for. All day the young girl stayed with her 
aunt silently helping her to clean, rub, and scour alfin the little 
house to the old spotless i^erfection. All day long Magdalen was 


JOY. 


197 

rambling alone out on the heathery moors, or down the glen among 
the hawthorns by the waterfall. 

Kachel and Joy spoke hardly a word to each other. They had 
drawn so close together in the past year, and were so dear to each 
other, and now— 

Joy had said, 

“ Must the old life begin again for you? It ought not, it shall not 
1 will come every day — ” 

“Hush, dear, it must!” Rachel replied. “You have been my 
sunshine! it is a blessing to look back upon! But she, Magdalen, 
has taken such a hold on my life, we seemed so ordained to be bound 
together, that it is a sacred duty laid upon me from Heaven, 1 be- 
lieve, to give her my whole thoughts and powers, as she wishes, to 
the end. At times, it has seemed to me as if she could not die — 
would never venture down into the river of death— unless I came 
too. A wrong fancy! She will have a better guide, then. Still, it 
often made me feel, even when we thought her lost on the moors, 
that she could not be really gone from earth without me.” 

And now, at sunset, Blyth had come to seek his betrothed, and 
Joy, shading her eyes, presently came out to look for him. 

“ Speak to my mother a minute,” she said. “ She wishes so much 
to thank you.” (Nay, that was Joy’s own sweet persuasion, as 
Blyth very well knew; but he honored the small, loving pretense.) 

Magdalen, sitting in the little porch, with her hood pulled over 
her face, being perhaps confused in her own mind between past and 
present, perhaps playing at trying to restore her own feelings— who 
can say? — rose with dignified grace and gave him her hand. 

“ You wish to marry my daughter, Juanita da Silva, 1 am told,” 
she said. “ Well, you are a worthy young man, and as 1 hear you 
have got gold-mines in Australia — or, what, Joy, sheep-farms,” do 
you say? No matter, it all means riches, wealth! So I will give 
my consent, as you can keep her in a position befitting her rank. 
Good-by, and — he good to her T'' 

She hastily turned and disappeared into the inner bedroom before 
Blyth could speak. Nor did he again see her, indeed, for many a 
day; and then — the meeting was still more strange. 

But Rachel’s majestic form stood looking after the young people 
as they went away. Her still smile, so brave it told nothing of what 
was passing in her heart, seemed yet to lighten upon them as they 
halted in the distance, and beckoned their last greetings from the 
Logan-stone. 

Ah! and yet it was so hard, they thought together; so hard for her 
to have tasted some of the happiness of domestic life and requited 
affection without constant fears; yet now, to have to take up the old 
burden again, and travel on once more the weary old road! 

But how did they know whether Rachel Estonia felt it so? If 
little has been said of her inner feelings of late, it is because of such 
spirits as hers there is little to say, unless when great trials or duties 
call forth their powers. She had seemed to herself in a dream, re- 
lieved of her heavy duty, yet wandering ever to find it again. There 
was no place fitted in the world for her, unless she might once more 
undertake some weighty task— so used had she been to such. 


JOY. 


198 

And now, in the browning twilight, there came a rustle behind 
her; Magdalen’s breath was on her cheek. 

“ So they are gone! Ah, it is better; 1 am so tired of seeing many 
faces, and hearing talk. Silence! liberty! that is what 1 want; and 
you always liked what I liked, Rachel. It will be such a great rest. 
The old life is best for me, after all.” 

” But you were happy while away, sister?” 

(Rachel used the old term, once fancifully begun by Magdalen, who 
grew wary of hearing their names mutually reiterated, she said.) 

“Yes, yes; very happy in away,” Magdalen musingly replied. 
“ It was all like a dream, traveling, and the new scenes and people, 
sights and crowds and music. I felt like a child at times, straying 
down tlie primrose-path, you know, and gathering flowers; and 
often 1 was half frightened at times, being alone. Then it seemed 
to me as if you were somehow appointed my guide to heaven, and 
that you would be sure to call me back, and look for me before I 
had gone too far. That was not the narrow, right path, was it? 
Ah, L fear 1 have been a silly stray sheep for you to watch over, poor 
Rachel! Well, but now 1 mean to try to be good, and follow you 
wherever you wish, dear; 1 do indeed."' 

Summer had passed into autumn, and the yellow stubble-helds 
were empty, while the stock-yards and granaries were full. 

The Red House was just as full of gladness and health, in a quiet 
manner of rejoicing. For old Farmer Berrington had taken a new 
lease of life, so the doctors owned, with astonishment. And, in- 
deed, he did, thereafter, live hale and hearty, however heavy, to a 
still riper, good old age before he fell asleep; and his mortal re- 
mains were laid beside those of his forefathers. 

And, for more good news, Bl^dh and Joy Berrington, his wife, 
had come back, after a short and happy time that "they had gone 
away together, following their quiet marriage by liceuse (to avoid 
gossip) in the nearest large town. 

They might indeed have stayed away longer, for it .was lovely 
weather, with a soft, warm sun by day and only mild hoar-frost at 
night; and the country they wandered inw'as one of lakes, and high 
mountains, and rural, old-fashioned inns, delightful and new to 
both; and lastly they were not too new to each other’s way to feel 
anything but happy and at ease and perfectly trustful of each other 
under whatever little trials of travel might happen. 

Rut one morning Joy was uneasy. And as she could not shake off 
the strange impression, she told Blyth presently of a dream that 
seemed to haunt her. She had imagined she awoke in the dead of 
the past night, in the hour when the deepest sleep falls upon men, 
feeling a cold air blow over her face. 

And then— though it was quite dark— she, opening her eyes, saw 
her mother sitting on the bed at her feet like a white, illuminated 
shadow. 

Magdalen smiled at her with her old winning smile, and said, 

“We were not as much to each other in life as we should have 
been, dear child. It was my fault— but it is all made right now I 
Go back to Rachel — she needs you!” 

Thereupon, it seemed to Joy that she knew no more until she 
awoke in the glad morning with the sun shining and the birds sing- 


JOY. 199 

ing.^ So, theretore, slie could not really have wakened to have slept 
again so immediately, as Blyth pointed out. 

Nevertheless, argue it as he might, Joy, though dutifully agreeing 
in his every word, felt still as uneasy all the same. It was so true 
that at any moment Rachel might want her; would allow no other 
help (if even hers!) were Magdalen suffering in one of her sad peri- 
odical attacks! And Blyth, while proving to her that such imaginary 
visions were only the effect of a ray of moonshine seen between 
waking and sleeping, or some such other fanciful cause, neverthe- 
less was so willing to relieve her anxiety that they prepared to start 
on their return journey^at once. 

8o, two days later, the young husband and wife arrived at mid- 
day at the Red House. There, in spite of their arrival being unex- 
pected, a most hearty home-coming welcome greeted them. The old 
farmer and Hannah, the men on the place, the dogs and horses, nay, 
the very fowls and bees and flow^ers seemed all to rejoice. It was a 
spontaneous outburst of gladness, and a cheerful, willing, running 
hither and thither to get all to rights for the young master and mis- 
tress, surely a hundred-fold better than any more elaborate prepara- 
tions of honor. 

“ And is all well up at the cottage?” Joy asked at once, striving 
to conceal her anxiety. 

“All is well 1 could not be better,” replied Hannah, cheerfully. 
” 1 was up there four days ago, with a basket, and my own dear 
lady, your mother, dearie, came and kissed me. Which was won- 
derful for her— but she was tired-like, and soft-hearted, the creat- 
ure!” 

So all was right. 

‘‘ We will go up there this evening,” said Blyth, cheerily. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

“ My heart is growing cauld, 

And will be caulder still, 

And sair, sair in the fauld 
Will be the winter’s chill. 

The peats were yet to ca’, 

Our sheep they were to smear, 

When mv a’ passed awa’, 

In the fa’ o^ the year. 

“ Be kind, O Heaven abune. 

To ane sae wae and lane. 

And tak’ her hamewards sune, 

In pity o’ her maen. 

Lang ere the March winds blaw, 

May she, far, far frae here, 

Meet them a’ that’s awa’, 

Sin’ the fa’ o’ the year.” 

The Widow's Lament 

And so the pair, the young man and woman, came that evening 
by the upper path over the hills (because Blyth had some new sheep 
there) to w^here thev could look from the high ground of the moor 
down on the great^rock, almost directly below them, at the glen’s 
mouth, and the little cottage sheltering under it.^ , . 

” There is no smoke from the chimney; yet it ought to be their 


JOY. 


200 

time for supper,” said Joy, with troubled solicitude in her voice, as 
she looked down at Cold-home— lit name, truly, always, for the 
small moor- stone dwelling. 

“ Your mother will not willingly see me, so 1 had better wait at 
the Logan-stone till whatever time you like to come home,” said 
JBlyth, with the steadfast cheerfulness that made all the time or 
trouble he gave seem as things of nouglit. And yet, In his mind’s 
core, he doped she would not be very long; and likewise reflected 
that, though a man may be patient, yet he must smoke. 

So Blyth was wending his way toward the river, when, just as he 
had filled his pipe, something caused him to stand still. The she- 
goat belonging to the cottage was springing wildly, and rattling her 
chain, fastened a tree, as if half maddened, as he approached her. 

Then he noticed she had not been milked lately, and that all the 
grass round her tether was nibbled close and trampled. 

Blyth was very fond of animals; so be made haste to release the 
poor beast, when a low call from the cottage reached his ear. He 
knew it was Joy; and, hastening to her summons, found her stand- 
ing, looking pale and frightened, before the cottage. 

” Oh, Blyth, the door is locked,” she said, as he came up. “ What 
does it mean? They are always at home at this hour; but 1 can 
make no one hear me.” 

” They are up the glen, or down by the river, dear. They can’t 
be far off.” 

“ They are not up the glen.” Joy was half beside herself now 
with growing fears. ” Look, the red curtain is drawn across the 
window, as it only is at night. And, see there! a spider has spun 
its thread over the doorpost. Oh, they cannot have gone away and 
l^t us again!'' 

” Come round to the bed chamber window, and call,” cried Bljdh, 
excited at sight of that spider’s thread. “ If they are there, your 
mother ought to know your voice, whether she is ill or not. Miss 
Kachel will.” 

A white blind was drawn closely down over the little window at the 
other end of the cottage. Nothing could be seen; all was mute as the 
grave from inside those moor-stone walls. Joy, nevertheless, laised 
her fresh young voice in a thrilling call. 

” Mother! mother! Aunt Rachel ! It is 1, Joy, your own child. 
Hear me; answer me.” 

Then came fiom inside a low, faint sound. It was human breath, 
a voice; but its utterance only reached the outside of the walls no 
louder than a sigh. Both the listeners looked eagerly at each other; 
bent their ears again — nothing more. 

Blyth waited no longer, but ran round to the door, and, snatching 
up a large stone, gave two or three violent blows against the lock, 
and then, using all the strength of his own broad-shouldered body, 
burst into the cottage. The first object he stumbled over in the half- 
gloom was a basket of provisions; the self-same Hannah had last 
brought. But he could not stop to look about, for Joy had darted 
before him into the inner room, while he more softly followed. 

What a sight met their eyes! 

The westering sun striking full on the little window, and passing . 


JOY. ^oi 

through the white blind, illumined the scene with a pure, yet ghostly 

On the low truckle bed lay Magdalen, her hands folded on her 
breast. Or was it really she, so still, so pallid, so small? She was 
a corpse. And at her side sat a silent, dark mourner on the ground, 
bending over her sister with her own head leaned against the wall; 
speechless, motionless as her dead, with living eyes that saw nothing 
and ears that seemed not to hear the footsteps that entered. So 
Rachel Estonia sat, like a statue, and, as the moments went by, never 
stirred or sighed or took her gaze (if indeed she saw) off Magdalen’s 
face. 

Joy’s first outcry and impulse of anguish and pitying love frozen 
by that awful stillness, she caught Blyth’s arm, and, clinging to 
him, they gazed together in moments of silence that seemed almost 
hours. 

Magdalen was all laid out in spotless white, with not a wrinkle 
either on the fresh sheets on which she lay, and that were folded so 
delicately corpse-wise on her faintly outlined form. Plainly Rachel 
Estonia’s strength had not failed her till the last needful services 
had been done for the sister she loved so truly in life. Then she 
must 'have sunk down here, and so stayed— how long? None ever 
knew I But Magdalen had been dead perhaps, three days and nights. 

Joy knelt by the living, whom, after all— yes, indeed— she had 
loved the best! folded her in her arras, caressed her, wept over her, 
laying her own warm, tear- wet cheek against that dear one. Yet 
Rachel still seemed in a trance. Though Joy’s voice in that first 
call had power to bring back her spirit from where it seemed to have 
wandered out from her body, striving vainly to follow her beloved 
dead in thought while yet bound to the flesh, now she had relapsed 
into unconsciousness of all earthly objects around her. 

At last Blyth took her up bodily in his arms and gently carried 
her into the other room. There w^hile he hurried for help to the 
Red House Farm, Joy watched and tended her with all the love and 
poignant grief of her warm young heart, rising often to self-accusing 
pangs of keenest remorse. But she wronged herself. 

In intervening moments her better sense told her this weird call 
had not come through any neglect of her own. And it comforted her 
not a little to think that, in the vision she had seen, her mother had 
worn no accusing look, but, on the contrary, had seemed to bless 
her. 

Blyth had come baek in utmost haste from the farm, and old Han- 
nah with him; but the twilight was already falling, and to Joy it 
seemed hours that she had sat there alone with Rachel and her dead 
mother. They brought restoratives; and, alter a w^hile, with much 
pains, had the satisfaction of seeing Rachel’s dark eyes light up in a 
gleam of consciousness and love as they rested on Joy, wdiile her 
lips moved. 

“ Dear! my heart’s child!” she uttered in broken murmurs, ” my 
task on earth is finished now; I am going to rest. Where is your 
Blyth?” 

They brought Blyth to her, who had been sitting in the porch in 
the outside summer darkness, guarding the little house, while the 
river could be heard flowing by, and the stars shone soft in the clear 


JOY. 


m 

sky. Eacliel looked so still, with a wonderful sweetness on her face 
and holy calm lighting her steadfast eyes, while her low voice seemed 
to come from far, far away, that Blyth almost felt as if her spirit 
already belonged to another world. She looked at him and faintly 
saidj 

You will be good to Joy?” 

“As God is my witness, I will try to make her happy while my 
life lasts,” said the young man, solemnly. 

A smile of ineffable satisfaction came on Rachel Estonia’s face, as 
she sunk back with her head on Joy’s breast. 

She did not speak again collectedly; though her lips sometimes 
moved, and, bending down, they could catch broken, loving expres- 
sions, as her memory strayed to each of the few persons who had 
been the little world of this noble soul; words treasured by them 
afterward as blessings. She never mentioned Magdalen, never 
Gaspaid, though once Hannah heard her say “Poor Peter,” and 
understood her; no one else. 

The night wore on; the still small hours came, when the earth is 
coldest and the tide of human vitality lowest. Then —all three 
thought her half sleeping — they aroused to be aware that they no 
longer heard her murmur, saw her move. Bending their ears, feeling 
her pulse, no breath, no beat of vitality answered the awe-struck, 
fearful expectancy. So, sweetly and calmly, Rachel Estonia had 
gone on her unknown journey, while the night sky was clear, the 
stars shining, the air so still. Surely, of the many who died that 
night on the million-peopled world, no spirit passed more happily 
from its bodily covering, its poor tenement of clay, than did hers. 
Surely she was a true sister! 

Where the little lone church stands hidden between wood and hills, 
in its wild and solitary nook; there, where its acre of graveyard 
touches the moor’s edge, rise three low waves of turf. They are a 
little apart from the rest of the sleeping congregation ; as in life, so 
in death. But the yellow broom bends its butterfly blossoms over 
the fence, and the heather and gorse smell sweetest here. One of 
these three lies by itself, a small wooden cross at its head bearing 
only these two letters, “ G. S.,” half effaced by time. But a red 
rosebush, like those down at the Red House, scattering its crimson 
petals to every breeze, seems to think itself the better living remem- 
brance of the dead below. 

Side by side, at the to6t of this grave, sleep the two sisters, who 
in death were not divided; two plain moor-stone slabs, bearing their 
names — BacTiel! Magdalen! No more. Except, indeed, that a white* 
rosebush is planted by each, and these blow, however shyly in the 
strong upland air, yet sweetly, in summer weather. 

Joy Berrington planted the roses; her loving hands, and, in after- 
years, those of the fair-haired, and some dark-eyed, children she 
thus piously taught, tended these three graves with loving care. 
Nevertheless, the moor-folk still look that way askance and wonder; 
and will tell strange legends of the wish sisters, and of a ghostly 
light still seen on wild dark nights at Cold-home ford, though the 
cottage has long fallen into ruin. A light that did good while the 
sisters lived could not prove themselves evil, some tew fair- judging 
minds stoutly declared at times; the rest said, “ Ay, but it was 


JOY. 


m 

plainly only a deed of repentance for some former great sin in their 
lives.” Let them say "what they will; little does it matter to those 
who knew the true story and brave spirit of Eachel Estonia. Little 
would she care! ^ 

Blyth Berringfon and Joy, his faithful wife, rich in all that wise 
men have agreed to consider the chiefest good things on earth, live 
blessing and blessed. If some ever ask who was Mistress Berring- 
ton, it is always confidently asserted that she was a far-away cousin, 
and a well-dowered one, of her good husband. Young Steenie Qawk- 
shaw, in a drunken fit long ago before her marriage, had been 
known to hint at some wild tale to the contrary. But he was dead, 
and his old father too. And so the story, whatever it was, died out. 

But in all the country; far or near, there was no more happy home- 
stead than that of the Red House. 


\ THE END. 









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LIST or AUTHORS. 


Works by the author of “ Addie’s 
Husband.” 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 

Woi'ks bytheauthorof ‘‘ A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

240 A Fatal Dower 10 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

588 Cherry 10 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

17 The Wooing O’t 20 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. . . 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

564 At Bay 10 

Alison’s Works. 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far 1” . . . 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481 The House That Jack Built.... 10 

F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

603 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 
Romance 10 

R. M. Ballautyue’s Works. * 

89 The Red Eric 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erling the Bold 10 

Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village lo 


Basil’s Works. 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green ” . . 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 

M. Bethain-Edwards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage ; or. The Wait- 
ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories lO 

594 Doctor Jacob 20 


Walter Besant’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle-Jack lo 

140 A Glorious Fortune lo 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

230 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 InXuck at Last lo 


William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

, 49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth ! . " 20 

124 Three Feathers ' ] 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmen.y 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadiily. 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 10 
627 White Heather 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition. 


R. I). Blackuiore’s Works. 


67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 


427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 


Miss M. E. Braddon’s Works. 


35 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune 20 

74 Aurora Floyd ^ 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 

153 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen ^ 

211 The Octoroon 10 

2:14 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery. . 20 

263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss Braddon 20 

434 Wyllard’s Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon - 20 

488 .Joshua Haggard’s Daughter.... 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Only a Clod 20 

499 The Cloven Foot ^ 

511 A Strange World ^ 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

55? To the Bitter End 20 

559 Taken at the Flood. 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

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567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

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254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

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287 At War With Herself 10 

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299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

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300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

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303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

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305 A Dead Heart, and Lady (Gwen- 

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306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

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307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

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308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 20 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves ^ 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret 

470 Evelyn’s Fc^ly ^ 

471 Thrown on the World ^ 

476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

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576 Her Martyrdom . 20 

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168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

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378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

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414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

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416 Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef 20 


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420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

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421 The Redskins; oi*, Indian and 

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107 Dombey and Son. 1st half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

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131 Our Mutual Fi'iend 40 

132 Master Humphi-ey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. . . 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

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169 The Haunted Man 10 

437 Life and Adveutui*es of Martin 

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437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
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439 Great Expectations 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes 20 

448 Pictures Fi’om Italy, and The 

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454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood . . 20 
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269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

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210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
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213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

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216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

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235 “It is Never Too Late to 
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261 A Fair Maid 20 

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590 The Courting of Mary Smith. .. 20 

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565 No Medium 10 

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508 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

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535 Henrietta’s Wish. ATale 10 

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53 The Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 
61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

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99 Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

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103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 10 
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111 The Little School-master Mark. 

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114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

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115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

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120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

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122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

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127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

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150 For Himself Alone. T. W. 

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151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

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156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

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160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

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161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

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163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
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170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

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174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

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178 More Leaves from the Journal 
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182 The Millionaire 20 

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218 Agnes Sorel. a. P. R. James.. 20 

219 Lady Clare : or. The Master of 

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242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 10 
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257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
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285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
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311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

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313 The Lover’s Creed. Mrs. Cash- 
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347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

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352 At Any Cost, Edward Garrett. 10 
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365 George Cliristy; or. The For- 
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374 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 
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381 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

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382 Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

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383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

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387 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
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389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

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399 Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An EnglLsh Squire. C. R. Cole- 
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405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

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406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

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407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood ... 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

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430 A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

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432 The Witch’s Head. H. Rider 
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435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

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436 Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry . 

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452 In the West Countrie. May 

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458 A Week of Passion; or. The 

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462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
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468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
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473 A Lost Son. Mary Linskill 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

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479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me, 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

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491 Society in London. A Foreign 

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493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

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501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

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510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

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512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Cui’ly An Actor’s Story. John 

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505 The Society of Loudon. Count 

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518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Fresnel. E. Fran- 
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532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

536 Dissolving: Views. By Mrs. An- 
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545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

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546 Mrs. Keitii’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh 20 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, 

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575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 
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581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

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582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

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583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith . . 20 

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595 A North Country Maid. Mrs. 

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599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

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612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 
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614 No. 99. Az’thur Griffiths <• ...^..>10 


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564 At Bay, By Mrs, Alexander... 10 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas. 10 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, The 

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567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate. By Mrs. 

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569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 10 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill.. 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 
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575 The Finger of Fate. By Cap- 

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576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
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577 In Peril and Privation. By 

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578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
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578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

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579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

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580 The Red Route. By William 

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581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

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582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

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583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith.. 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

585 A Drawn Game. By Basil 20 

586 “For Percival.” By Margaret 

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587 The Parson o’ Dumford. By G. ■ 

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588 Cherry, By the author of “ A 

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589 The Luck of the Darrells. By 

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590 The Courting of Maiy Smith. 

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592 A Strange Voyage, By W, 

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593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

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595 A North Country Maid. By Mrs. 

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596 My Ducats and My Daughter.. 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer. By Will- 

iam Sime 10 

598 Corinna. By “Rita.” lO 

599 Lancelot Ward, M. P, By 

George Temple lO 

6(X) Houp-La. By John Strange 
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601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

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602 Camiola: A (5irl With a Fort- 

une. By Justin McCarthy. . . 20 


603 Agnes, Mrs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. Mrs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent : A Tale of Modern 

Life. By Mrs, Oliphant. 1st 


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604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
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606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

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607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

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609 The Dark House: A Knot Un- 

raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 

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611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the au- 

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613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet. By Wilkie 
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614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget. By B. L. 

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617 Like Dian's Kiss. By “Rita”. ^ 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 

mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford. By May Crom- 
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620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. M. Linskill. . . 20 
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Collins 10 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

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627 White Heather. By William 
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Miss Corson is the best American writer on cooking. All of her recipes 
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titles of the books: 

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No. 1. TOT I KNOW ’BOUT GRUEL SOCIETIES SPEAKER. 
No. 2. JOHN B. GO-OFF COMIC SPEAKER. 

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are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please 
order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

80 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Wido'v 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilrnepy. 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBEABT.’—Ordina/iry EdMcn. 


63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

243 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 1(? 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

v025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1033 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1439 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 30 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 


MISS M. E. BRADDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 

69 To the Bitter End 

89 The Levels of Arden 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes ' 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 

114 Darrell Markham 

140 The Lady Lisle 

171 Hostages to Fortune 

190 Henry Dunbar 

315 Birds of Prey 

235 An Open Verdict 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 

254 The Octoroon 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 

287 Leighton Grange 

295 Lost foV Love 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 

469 Rupert Godwin 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRAItY. — Ordincwy Edition. 


481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey ,10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bouad to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 26 

1265 Mount Royal .* 2G 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

896 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

811 The Professor. . . • 1^^ 


THE SEASIDE LtBRART.— Ordinary Edition. 


329 Wiithering Heights 10 

438 Villette 30 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life !• 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

101£ His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated ) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine ; or. Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White,, 1 30* 

14 Tbe Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

88 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name , 20 

286 After Dark . 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


Tie Hew York Fashion Bazar. 


THE BEST AMEBICAH HOUE UAQAEIHE. 

Price ti5 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price per Year. 


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this elegant present will please forward their subscription as soon as possible. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It contains 
everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. The fashions in dress 
which it publishes are new and reliable. Particular attention is devoted to 
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lady in the preparation of her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and re- 
modeling old ones. The fashions are derived from the best houses and are 
always practical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make her own 
dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are carefully cut to 
measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the garment. They are use- 
ful in altering old as well as in making new clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of the maga- 
zine. Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, and new patterns 
given in every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home informa- 
tion, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes for cooking 
have each a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “The Duchess, ’’ 
author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, 
author of “ Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House on the 
Marsh.” 

The stories published in The New' York Fashion Bazar are the best that 
can be had. 

We employ no canvassers to solicit subscriptions for The New York Fash- 
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The New York Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
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THE CELEBRATED 

SOEMER 


GKAND, SQUAEE AND UPEIGHT PIANOS. 


FIRST PRIZE 

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Centennial Exnibi- 
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American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



They are used 
in Conservato- 
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count of their su- 
perior tone and 
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The SOHMER 
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ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUEAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER *fc CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 



FROM THE 
NERVE -GIVING 
PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERIM 
OF THE WHEAT 
AND OAT. 

BRAINAM NERVE FOOD. 

CROSKY’S 

VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard witli all Physicians who treat 
nervbus or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neiiralgria and side headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exhaust- 
ion : regenerates weakeiied vital powers. 

“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


” It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over-worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


‘‘ I really urge you to put it to the test.”— 

Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY CO., 56 W. 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. 


Munro’s Publications. 

THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 


POCKET edition. 

MISS M. E. BRAlM>ON’S WORKS. 

497 TIm* liiidv’s Mile... 


85 Lady Audley’s Se- 

rret 20 

56 Phantom Forl.iine. . 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

1 10 Under th«* Red Flag !(• 
158 The Golden Calf. ... 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Rnrhura; or, Splen- 
did lllsery 20 

263 An Ishmoeiite 20 

815 The Mistletoe 
Koiigh. Edited by 
M iss Krnd<Ion .... 29 
434 Wyllnrd's Weird.. 20 
478 Diavola; or, No. 
body’s Daughter. 

Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or. No- 
body's Daughter. 

Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. 
Edited by Miss M, 

E. Itraddoii 20 

487 Pnt to the Test. 

Edited by Miss M. 

E. Itraddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard's 

Daughter. T 20 

489 Rupert Godn iii. ... 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Onlv a Woman. 

Edited hr Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


498 Only a t'lod 

499 The Cloven Foot. . . 
51 1 A Strange World . . 
515 Sir Jasper's Tenant 
524 Stnuigers and Pil. 

grims 

529 The Doefor’s W ife. 

642 Fenton’s Quest 

544 Cut by the County; 

or, Graee Darnel. 
548 The Fatal Marriage, 
and The Shadow 
ill the (Uirner. . . . 
649 Dudley t^arleon; or. 
The Rrot lier’s Se- 
eret, and George 
Cunlileld's Jour- 
ney 

562 Host ages toFortune 

558 Rirds of Prey 

554 Cliarlolte's Iiiher- 

itanee. (Sequel to 
“RirilsofPrey.”) 
557 To the Bitter End. 

559 Taken at the Flood 

5G0 Asphodel 

561 Just as I am; or, A 

Living Lie 

567 Dead Men's Shoes.. 
570 John .Marehmoiit's 
Legacy 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 


10 


10 

20 

20 


20 

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20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


Any of the above works will be sent by mall, postpaid, 
on receipt of the price. Address 

GFNtRtiE MUNRO, Munro’s Piiblisbing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 10 27 Vandewater St., N. Y. 




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